The crows are by far my favourite family of birds. The way they look, their intelligence, charisma,and years of mythology and superstition really captivate me. As such, I wrote a lengthy poem covering most of the species of crow that we get here in the UK, as told by the Jackdaw...
Corvid
on a tour of my family tree.
But before we go I warn you,
you may not like what you see.
Welcome to the black parade,
all clad in death and fear.
When we approach with raucous cackles,
the end is surely near.
Let us start with the henchmen,
the most well known of our kind.
In his dark and fearsome heart,
no remorse there shall he find.
They are the frontline of the clan,
the backbone of the brood.
Turning cheer of fields, woods, and parks,
into a much more sombre mood.
Now we meet the joker,
with his rattling serpent laugh.
In two toned coat tipped emerald cloak,
he eyes the creatures cross his path.
For it is not only things that shimmer,
that catch his beady eye.
He has a taste for song birds,
and it is on these that he will spy.
He waits atop his sentry post,
for their nests to be revealed.
When he knows he'll get them,
no matter how concealed.
He wears a shroud of folklore,
hidden under veil of myth.
His cunning lets him fashion tools,
this feathered wiley blacksmith.
Men of the land believe him the devil,
mischievous tricks does he play.
But he'll spare you that if you tip your hat,
and send you on your way.
Sibling bird with lipstick bill,
this bird is called the Chough.
But we banished him to windswept coasts,
for he wasn't tough enough.
CAW! Comes cry from treetop towers,
as we meet our country brother.
For while they may look like the crow,
they are far different from each other.
With skull grey mask across their face,
they survey the rural scene.
Floating behind the tractor's teeth,
exploiting the ground where it has been.
They strut across the picturesque,
a marauding army donned in black.
Plundering the wealth the fields bring,
and that corvid mind they do not lack.
You can find them by the roadside,
hunched over deaths new soul.
Picking at the blood and eyes,
keeping true to ghastly role.
Whilst death and fear are common here,
we move onto another sin.
For the next upon our family tree,
deceives us of the bird within.
Burnt pink clashed electric blue,
he wears a magnificent disguise.
Yet for all this aesthetically pleasing look,
this bird is full of lies.
He leaps around the woodland crowd,
maneuvering throughout the trees.
It it was not for that most shrieking call,
then he could melt on by with ease.
He can shatter the very warmth of forest,
with that trademark piercing cry.
And whilst your colours may tell us differet,
tis with the crows your allegiances lie.
All hail the king!
roamer of the mountain's peaks.
Our lord understands the wilderness,
and the harsh language that it speaks.
Bold he fears nothing,
and resides where eagles dare.
The hostility of his windswept land,
is mirrored in his stare.
He surveys his untamed kingdom,
his figure marked against the sky.
And it is only those with wild at heart.
that will here the Raven's cry.
And for me? Well I'm the Jackdaw,
on death's coat tails I do not roam.
I've given up that kind of life,
for a quiet country home.
