(With apologies to Edgar Allan.)


High upon the windy wolds, deep in the Shire, the hamlets lie;
as do the villages, in coombs and valleys, 'neath a wide, deep sky.
Untouched by time, they drift and wander down the years with little change;
full of old beliefs and sayings... curious and passing strange.
Some are common on the Wolds, some village sayings are unique...
and it would take a wiser man than I... the doubt of truth to seek.
Most learned from watching seasons down the years; and thus, have slowly grown
into the folklore of the Cotswolds; all believed... all set in stone.
Some are even now, the Nursery rhymes with which the children toy...
"When you see a Magpie, it is one for sorrow, two for joy."
but the Magpie means much more, when, from the nursery, we depart;
for it is whispered round the hills, the Magpie gathers broken hearts.
Which is quite strange; for years ago, a Magpie nest, as boys... we found,
and deep down in, with bottle tops and silver paper all around;
were two or three engagement rings... a christening spoon... a wedding band...
each loss had broken someone's heart...
dismiss it not, all out of hand.

There are many more old tales that portend things beyond our sight;
"The hill is looking close today"... means rain will come before tonight.
"The Rooks are nesting high this year" means summer will be long hot days;
"There is a ring around the moon"... that means that frost is on its way.
Most of these are proven true; for years, the signs the ploughmen followed
"Red sky at night... shepherd's delight"... "Fog in the hollow... fine tomorrow."
But, there is one, I find un-nerving... though my senses are not craven,
It is dark and ominous... the saying that concerns The Raven.
Across the hills and valleys, many large black birds do wheel, and glide...
Jackdaws, Crows and Rooks abound... the Raven is so rarely spied.
And in the Inns, around the hearths... the same old words, they quietly say...
the Raven is the messenger of death, who carries souls away
from cottages, whereon it lands, and sits for any length of time...
an omen feared across the Wolds... a certain, sure and dreadful sign.
Awaiting The Grim Reaper, who will come there, with his scythe a'sweeping;
patient, black and motionless... its dread and silent vigil keeping.

You may think this is all nonsense; superstition... country-style,
but, you know... I'm not so sure; just read on for a little while.
Years ago, when we were children; about the age of nine or ten;
playing in the stream one day, as children still do now... as then...
we watched a large black bird skim down above our heads... so very low,
it neatly landed on a roof just down the lane... and watched us so...
very strangely...
very quietly; never moving... not a sound;
black eyes glittering... fixed and staring; not like birds, that glance around
quickly... looking out for danger; this one sat and stared, and stared;
we went back to playing... but, you know... we were a little scared.
But, of what... we didn't know; the stories, we had never heard
much spoke about... and, then, that's strange... the people pointing out the bird.
Some quickly looked away... some crossed themselves...
some gasped, in shocked surprise...
We looked... the Raven watched us with its cold and black, boot-button eyes.
Perching on the tiles of riven stone... unmoving, waiting there
it seemed, for something... but, for what?
It sat, as silent as a prayer.

And so continued thus, to do, for all that day... in open sight,
until its black and ominous shadow faded slowly with the night.
The next day dawned both clear and sun washed... smells of summer in the air,
and as we ran to play again; the Raven still, was sitting there.
Solitary... so still and silent; watching... watching... endlessly;
we didn't understand quite what was going on... we could not see
why a bird would sit there all that time... it should be flying high
above the copses and the valleys... up into the summer sky.
This was really strange; it wouldn't move, although we clapped our hands
to frighten it away... but, soon enough... we came to understand
something of the Old Wives Tales; for later on... around eleven
o'clock...
the Raven spread its wings, and soared aloft into the heavens.
Up and up... much higher, than it seemed to us, a bird should fly,
into the blazing summer sun... to follow it, much as we tried
squinting, shading eyes with hands... tracing out its upward flight;
soon, the Raven was no more... just vanished... lost, beyond our sight.

So, we went back to playing, but, we said it was a curious thing
that we had seen; until at home, that night... we heard the whispering.
The grown-ups talking quietly..."Did you hear; old Tom the Woodsman, died
this morning; round 'bout eleven o'clock; and, on his roof, they say they spied
the Raven waiting for The Reaper... been there for a day or more."
Wide-eyed, we listened in the corner... so, it's true... that's what we saw.
Years on, when looking back; one thinks perhaps, it was coincidence,
but, then... there are so many of these Old Wives Tales, that do make sense.
For, when the sky is red at night, the next morn will be bright, and dry,
and when the morning sky is red, then, soon the rain clouds, swift... will fly.
It all depends on how you read them... true or false, it's up to you...
but, growing up, surrounded by these things... one thing I surely know...
Whenever, I am in the village; honeyed stone, all nestling soft...
beside the river in the valley; often... I will glance aloft
along the ridge-tiles; round the chimneys... hoping that I will not see
a Raven; solitary and silent,
watching... watching... endlessly.