Welsh Country March-April 2017

THE RAVEN
I scan across the beach, taking in
those few landlocked tourists determined
to feel sand beneath them; the donkeys lined up,
looking resignedly bored as they wait for potential
riders to come by. More interesting, though, is
the behaviour of the gulls, black-backed in this
case, as they wander about uneasily. Living on
the coast, I’m used to seeing them, their bulk, the
carved smoothness of their sleek white heads.
But I’m not used to seeing them unsettled in
this way. Whenever I usually see them standing
on a car bonnet, a town-centre wall or the rocks
of the breakwater, they always seem supremely
confident, as though they could bully anything out
of their way.
He is beautiful, his ebony sheen
balanced in total opposition to the
stark whiteness of the other birds
around him. He also completely
relaxed both in our company and
under the scrutiny of the gulls.
It can’t be our presence that’s making them
skittish, I decide. They’d be well-used to people,
lurking around places such as this on the offchance
of a stray chip falling to the floor or a
half-eaten packet of crisps blowing from a table,
so what is it? I stand up and look off to the side
of the seated area and there, standing completely
at ease, is a large raven. He is beautiful, his ebony
sheen balanced in total opposition to the stark
whiteness of the other birds around him. He also
completely relaxed both in our company and
under the scrutiny of the gulls. Easily a match for
them size-wise, it
seems to know that it
is in control here; with its aerial
prowess it could outfly them, with their
heavy, laden flight, in a heartbeat.
I don’t usually see many ravens right on the
coast, but this one seems very much at home
here, lured perhaps by the same easy pickings as
the gulls. Perhaps it’s even here due to the gulls
themselves, not being averse to the odd egg or
nestling, and the gulls’ breeding season has begun
in earnest, explaining their unease at the raven’s
presence.
It barely moves, aside from the occasional
twitch of the head to readjust its field of vision,
causing the breeze to riffle through its oily-black
neck feathers, making them ripple like the surface
of a deeply shadowed mountain tarn. Immovable,
it glances over at the gulls again.
“Your move”, it seems to say. U
Words: Simon Smith
Illustration: Ditta Foldesi-Szalkai
www.welshcountry.co.uk 21