The Oracle of Old Craft Crow

I am the one who knows
of the craft that strung bones together
before there were sinews

and animated matter before the first breath.
Before the primordial darkness 
there was a crow. 

Don’t believe me? 
Ask the Old Mother –
she didn’t believe her eyes

but there I was and from me she learnt
the art of stirring her cauldron birthing the stars.
Still don’t believe me? Know this –

I can bring back the bones of forgotten monsters,
reassemble them to look like angels,
retrieve the words of lost books,

repair your dying world.
Still don’t believe me? Cah! 
Fill your mouth with my feathers,

spit them out and read my oracle.
Then you’ll see how in the darkness between worlds,
in the depths of all the pollution your kind have siphoned off,

at the end of all ends flies a crow and I am love.
Still don’t believe me? Cah! Cah!
You’re not the first.

The Oracle of Chanting Crow

I chanted songs before the enchanter
chanted this world into being from fire, air, earth, water,
wind, mist, dew, from fruits, from an unknown frightful thing. 

I know the chants that make corpses rot and bring
the dead to life from the cold earth’s bones.
I know the sleeping songs of stones. 

My chants of transformation
rival the formulae of mathematicians.
I sing not numbers, sine, cosine, dark equations

but still I can launch an aeroplane or nuclear bomb.
I can bring warplanes down from the skies
and I can call a seedling to grow.

I make a mockery of all who claim
to conquer the divinities of mountaintops
and gyres with what you call my neanderthal tongue.

I am no songbird and I am certainly no homo sapiens.
I know nothing of your guilt and depression,
only the chants of Chanting Crow.

The Oracle of Counting Crow

I was the first to learn to count –
un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump, chwech, saith.
Saith brain, seven crows…

We were not born from a mother or father
but crawled from the corpse of a dead crow –
maggots, then flies, then black, black flapping things.

We taught you not to count on fingerbones 
with the touch of our wings brushing
the divides between the worlds.

We taught you to count in threes,
sixes, sevens, nines, sacred numbers.
We did not teach you the numbers of the Gods.

When you asked why we take the eyes of the dead
and put them in the empty eye sockets of seers
we told you our eyes are without count.

We place them in the palms of the hands 
of the blind so maggots can be born from them,
flies, crows, to carry visions of the past, present, end.

Of when the skies fall in a sheen of crow feathers,
black, black, black, just a glimpse of indigo.
They tell you they are without number.

The Oracle of Courting Crow

Let your words rush like a river, 
like rocks tumbling, water flowing, 
flooding down, water runs, crows fly!

Flying up above I see my reflection 
in the water, court it, court my shadow 
but cannot pull it from the surface 

or peel it screaming from the rocks.
Water runs, crows fly, shadows glide.
There are too many holes in the sky.

Courting Crow will never be whole.
I’m so in love with my reflection, shadow
dark in the water, always half astride.

Courting Crow will never fix the sky.
I’ll never be whole until my flight is one with
rocks and water, river crashing down,

until my bones are back up above,
the rocks tumbling up to fill the holes,
the rivers flowing backwards to source. 

The Oracle of Crafty Crow

I perched on the eyelids 
of the first eyes of the universe
to open then I ate them all – crafty!

That is why they call me Crafty Crow
and that is why my eyes are black.
As a punishment or reward?

Only Crafty Crow knows.
I am the one who knows how
to bend fates like a twig in water. 

I perch on the shoulder of Morgana.
I change the directions of twigs
and leave a trail of feathers

leading to a witch’s hut.
I know wordcraft, spellcraft, 
the ingredients for the best potions,

why the awen always becomes poison,
why you should never ever eat
the corpse of a dead crow.

Crows are the world’s livers.
We feast on the world’s darkness
growing bigger and darker until we fill all.

The Oracle of Chattering Crow

Chattering Crow:

Chit chat chatter chatter
caw! Caws a corvid. Not enough
words in your language for crow-talk.

Do you want to know why I got my beak bound?
Why I got banished for banter? Yes? No?
Crows never give a yes or no answer

because words are slippery things,
sliding from our mouths like maggots
becoming flies their truths already transforming.

They are like morsels tossed from beak to beak –
meat from corpses that float like corks
downriver and out to sea fit not even for seagulls.

Caw. Caw. Cough. Cough. Choke. I was never
a chough, a raven, or a rook, doomed,
exalted to crow instead. One word

too many was my undoing. What?
You’ll never find it amongst the chatter.
Easier to find a maggot wriggling in a corpse.

The Oracle of Scattered Crow

Scattered Crow:

I was the first crow to be born
and the first to be torn apart –
every little piece of me

from liver to gizzard
from tail to black beak
every single feather scattered.

You see the darkness between
the stars? That’s me. There before
that ancient sea-crow Morfran-Afagddu.

I am the darkness behind everything – 
without, within, I lurk even where
the light enters your eyes.

And where are my eyes?
Everywhere! Numerous as possibilities.
Call upon me and with them I will help you see.

Do not endeavour to make me whole because
I am already one in my scatteredness.
The Gatherer of Souls will gather

the stars but never the darkness.
Do you feel the touch of my wings?
Do you feel the darkness in your retina?

Only when you close your eyes and scry
the blackness of the beginning will
you know Scattered Crow.

Grey Geese and Oracles

Between September and November grey geese arrive in my locality. I’ve seen a local flock of greylag geese on the stretch of the river Ribble near Howick Cross at this time two years running. Greylags are the ancestors of domestic geese and residents in the UK all year round; migratory birds are only found in Scotland. This flock also contains Canada and domestic geese.

Greylag Geese, Ribble

Greylag geese, river Ribble

More dramatically pink-footed geese begin arriving from Iceland and Greenland. They can be heard flying overhead to WWT Martin Mere. This year the first group touched down on September the 9th and there are currently 15000 roosting on the reserve.

Pink-footed Geese, Martin Mere

Pink-footed geese, Martin Mere

Watching their return to the last fragment of Martin Mere at sunset is awe-inspiring. One can only imagine the noise and patterns of the skeins before the Lancashire’s Lost Lake, once 15 miles long, was drained.

Pink-footed Geese, Martin Mere

Pink-footed geese return at sunset, Martin Mere

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In the folklore of northern England, the cries of migrating geese are linked to Gabriel Ratchets. ‘Gabriel’ may derive from the name of the Angel of Death, the ‘gabble’ of geese, or the medieval word gabbe, ‘corpse’. ‘Ratchet’ originates from the Old English ‘ræcc’ meaning a ‘a dog that hunts by scent’.

The earliest record of Gabriel Ratchets is from 1664. Whilst living at Coley Hall in the Calder Valley, Reverend Oliver Heywood wrote in his Memoranda:

‘There is also a strange noise in the air heard of many in these parts this winter, called Gabriel-Ratches by this country-people, the noise is as if a great number of whelps were barking and howling, and ‘tis observed that if any see them the persons that see them die shortly after, they are never heard but before a great death or dearth… Though I never heard them.’

In his Notes on the Folklore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders (1879), William Henderson suggests the ‘belief in a pack of spectral hounds’ originates from ‘the strange un-earthly cries, so like the yelping of dogs, uttered by wild fowl on their passage southwards.’

Lancashire folklorist James Bowker notes, in his Goblin Tales of Lancashire (1879), ‘Mr Yarrell, the distinguished naturalist, reduces the cries of the Gabriel Hounds, into the whistling of the Bean Goose… as the flocks are flying southward in the night, migrating from Scandinavia.’

Bean Goose, WWT Slimbridge, Wikipedia Commons

Bean Goose, WWT Slimbridge, Wikipedia Commons

This appears to be a mistake: bean geese migrate from Scandinavia to Norfolk and southern Scotland. Here in Lancashire it seems more likely that pink-footed geese, with their ‘high-pitched honking calls, being particularly vocal in flight, with large skeins being almost deafening’ would have been associated with Gabriel Ratchets. The pink-footed goose is closely related to the Bean Goose and was once considered a subspecies. Perhaps Mr Yarrell conflated the two.

Gabriel Ratchets are often associated with a spectral huntsmen. This may originate from pagan beliefs about ‘the Wild Hunt’ which takes place at the time of year geese migrate. In Norse and Germanic tradition it is usually led by Odin or Woden, to whom a goose was sacrificed on the Autumn Equinox. The Germanic goddess, Berchta, has a goose-foot and also leads a hunt with a goose flying in front of her. Dancers in her processions, the Berchten, wear bird-masks.

In Brythonic tradition a leader of ‘the Wild Hunt’ is Gwyn ap Nudd. His hounds are known as Cwn Annwn ‘Hounds of the Otherworld’, Cwn Wybyr ‘Hounds of the Sky’, or Cwn Cyrff, ‘Corpse Hounds’. Like the Gabriel Ratchets they are seen as death portents because they hunt the souls of the dead. Gwyn is a ruler of Annwn who oversees the passage of souls between the worlds, which is mirrored by the migrations of geese.

***

Goose is traditionally eaten on Martinmas, November the 11th, which is dedicated to St Martin of Tours. This festival ‘originated in France, then spread to the Low Countries, the British Isles, Germany, Scandinavia, and Eastern Europe’. Martin attempted to hide in a goose pen to avoid being ordained as a bishop, but was given away by the cackling of geese. (I can’t help noticing connections between Martin, Martin Mere and geese…)

Roast goose, all things clipart

After the feast, divination was performed by the breast-bone. In 1455, Dr Hartlieb wrote, ‘When the goose has been eaten on St Martin’s Day or Night, the oldest and most sagacious keeps the breast-bone and allowing it to dry until the morning examines it all around, in front, behind and in the middle. Thereby they divine whether the winter will be severe or mild, dry or wet.’ In Hampshire ‘the nature of the coming winter’ was divined from a breast-bone and, in Yorkshire, weather was predicted from the colour of goose-flesh.

The British Apollo (1708) poses the question why the ‘breast of a fowl’ is ‘called the Merry Thought’ and provides the answer, ‘The original of that name was doubtless from the pleasant fancies that commonly arise from the breaking of that bone, and ‘twas then first certainly so called, when these merry notions were first started.’ Every Commercialmas someone in my family breaks the ‘wish-bone’ of our turkey and makes a wish.

These traditions are rooted in a wide-spread belief that the goose was an oracular bird. It has been argued this derives from the Etruscans who ‘believed geese had supernatural visionary powers as oracle birds with these prophetic powers residing within its bones’ and was brought to Britain by the Romans.

***

Our understanding of the oracles of geese has diminished; drained away with their wetland homes. We can no longer tell, from the cacophany of voices barking overhead, who carries news and who carries a death portent. Goose is rarely eaten in Britain, with the tradition of rearing flocks of domestic geese for food, particularly for during the festive season, being replaced by turkey farming. Divination has been reduced to a facile act of wish-fulfilment in a world increasingly disconnected from the language of the divine.

Yet, whilst there are geese, there is hope that their language can be re-learnt by re-attuning to their flight paths, their life ways, listening to their gabble, divining how this relates to teachings from our gods. Perhaps, as pumps are shut down and wetlands are re-flooded, our abilities to divine will return with the geese.

Martin Mere at Sunset

Martin Mere at sunset

***

SOURCES

 Edward A. Armstrong, The Folklore of Birds, (Dover, 1958)
James Bowker, Goblin Tales of Lancashire, (Classic Reprint, 2015)
William Henderson, Notes on the Folklore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders (Create Space, 2014)
‘Origin of the Wishbone Tradition’, Republic of You Blog
‘The Gabble Ratchets’, Ghosts and Legends of the Lower Calder Valley
Pink-Footed Goose, RSPB
WWT Martin Mere