Raven Magic

The Raven has to be one of our favourite birds, dark and mysterious, funny and intelligent, masterful in the air, cliff top and forest, chief of the shining blue-black corvids, wrapped in myth and magic. We find it a curious thing that a Raven, or Ravens, often appear when we are in a ‘happy place’, when we are relaxed and at peace, whether that place is high on a granite moorland Tor, deep in the Somerset Exmoor hills, up upon the white chalk Southern Downs or simply walking our local patch we are blessed with their presence.

In urban springtime before the lilacs bloom, around the time of the Lammas moon, high above the sounds of practiced choral tune and speckled yew tree thrush, high above Cathedral roof, from her hidden tower nest box scrape, the Peregrine falcon screams for her mate. Across the Bishop's Palace Gardens, high in the tallest tree, a Raven couple croak, a conversation spoke, in scratchy tolerance, it would appear, both couples share this space of urban air.

One Beltane day in Wilmington, as hands were held, a circle round, with blessing to sing and exchange, a pair of Raven, silently, out of the sun, they came, above the giant’s head, they circled once their tails spread, then vanished in the glare. How blessed we were to think that they had time to spare, to grace this humble gathering, that sunny day in May.

In summertime, way out West, away from Sussex weald, over chalk downland hills and passed the Wessex plains, the Raven calls his morning greeting, as we break our breakfast bread, he salutes us then flies out across the moors.

As Autumn's breath turns heather hues and Rowan berries red, in mid-day sun, above the tops he glides, on outstretched inky wings. Through warming thermal, from rocky Tor to granite heights he slips, as if through time. Higher he climbs, and higher still, so high to become but a speck, a dot before the human eye. Then suddenly he throws a mighty, throaty croak, of joy across the sky, and tumbles, twisting, turning, on closed black wing, his aim simply to play, to feel the rush of air go by, to duck and dive and float, to fly.

With Samhain past and Guy Fawkes burned, as day and night both merge, from dark bedraggled feathered cloak, of shoulders hunched and folded wing, with talon's death like grip, thoughtful watching eye, and dark black shining bill, a muttered forlorn croak, bewails the pewter cloud filled sky. The Raven, upon the topmost rock, a silhouette of watchful, menacing form, sits out the raging storm.

To seek him out is to no avail, to grace us with his presence is at his will, so as we wander from our door, across field and farm, with no particular aim other than to be at one in nature, to breath and contemplate the very air, by oak and Ash and gently munching cow, we stop and turn. A sound picked up upon the breeze, when out of yonder wood he comes, a graceful, feathered tip of wing, a wedge of tail, a bird of poem, of magic spirit, King Arthur some might say, or Merlin, he may be. His eye surveys the land about, his voice calls out a rough croak shout, the Raven lifts upon his blue-black wing to circle high above tree and post and rail, then to sail right back in the wood, with a nod of greeting, we like to think, our reasons for being there are understood.

Words and pictures by A & D Studios © 2022 (unless otherwise credited)