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The Raven's Telling
 

Some say I am the harbinger of death,
Some say my blood curdling cries foretell the fatality of mortal men.
Tis true I have cast my shadow over many a bloody battlefield.
I was present at the hour of Arthur’s passing when cold metal met warm flesh and the noblest of all kings was slain.
I watched as the conquering enemy soullessly dragged your fearless warrior queen from her chariot of hope, fighting and courageous to the last.
I flew helplessly alongside my own wise mistress, my talons and feathers flaying as they dragged her sobbing to the stake.
I perched on the wet rocks of the sacred isle as the black robed priestesses screeched defiance to the last, before giving their lives and souls to the power hungry Eagle and to the unceasing waves.
My kin even now, unceasingly guard the White Mount in the name of Bran.
Your land is in their hands.
My tale is unending, my shadow hovering over many a lonely battlefield.
I dance my dervish of death upon the rotting corpses of the departed.
With blood on my beak, I peck at the bodies.
I feast and feel no shame.
Their blood, your blood feeds my soul,
Nourishes my body.
I return you to your Goddess.
I pick at your mind and cleanse your soul.
I am keeper of your darkest dreams.
I am initiator of change.
Always though, I travel back,
Back through time, through space or distance.
It makes no odds.
Makes no difference.
I travel back and forth between the worlds.
The worlds of dark spirit and the world of men.
I journey back to where I belong, to The Stones,
Standing silent and aloof on the windswept plain.
Not all who come to The Stones see me there.
I cast a glamour; I beguile those who do not belong;
those who do not know.
Those who do know, see through my mantle of illusion.
Enter into my world.
Make the connection.
Enter the darkness.
Become entwined, become part of the telling.
My world is revealed at midnight and when the solstice sun hangs low in the heavens.
Then She comes, in her black billowing cloak, walking through the illusion, into the dawn of shadow.
She sees like I, the raven.
She connects, she senses, sees through my eyes.
She knows the power, from whence it came.
She knowingly offers sweet treats for the spirits who still linger at these mighty stones and for the ravens too.
She smiles, kin to kin.
She knows.
I hover overhead, then land on her shoulder.
I take her offering.
“Mistress” I say,
“You return to me, you journey through the flight path of time to the place of my heart”
“Tis the place of my heart too” she chides “You silly old bird”
Her eyes are dark, deep.
She looks at The Stones, standing ancient, tall and proud.
She hears what I hear, feels what I feel.
She feels the tides of magic, feels the currents.
Powerful energies, accumulating, building, taking shape.
The quickening.
This place is alive.
My mistress and I know.
We are a part of the telling.
We walk hand in hand with death:
Your death.
Some say I am the harbinger of death.
Who am I to argue………?

Moonwillow
January 2004