Nine days to go, and it is not that I want to die, but rather that I often feel as if I am already lying out on the moor, while the crows hop around me, competing to peck out my eyes and tongue. By now you have probably also been canvassed by a death-bird:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Of all this murder of crows – May, Corbyn, Farronage and Sturmon – one appears sincere. After all, he hasn’t concealed his true name:
Forms: Also ME corbun, corboun.
Etymology: < Old French corbin, derivative of corb, corp, corf < Latin corvus raven: compare Latin corvīnus adjective.
Þe bacbitere cheoweð monnes flesch & bekeð wið his blake bile o cwike charoines, ase þe þet is þes deofles corbin of helle
The backbiter chews human flesh and beaks with his black bill on quick [i.e. living] carrion, as he that is the devil’s corbin of hell. 1
In terms of the political taxonomy devised by my good friend Linus von Pelt, with the assistance of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, Corbyn is a carrion crow:
The all-black carrion crow is one of the cleverest, most adaptable of our birds. It is often quite fearless, although it can be wary of man. They are fairly solitary, usually found alone or in pairs… Carrion crows will come to gardens for food and although often cautious initially, they soon learn when it is safe, and will return repeatedly to take advantage of whatever is on offer.
It is not the end to privatisation and cuts, or the strengthening of public services, that sets my heart on fire for Corbyn, and that has raised crow after crow, cheering, to its feet. It is all of those policies transformed into a clear plan of action: the promise of Labour’s demise, and its rebirth into a truly participatory body that can redefine parliamentary politics.
These are tempestuous times, and I fear that people will take me for an owl. Here‘s a piece of nocturnal nature writing from Emmy Thomee in peaceful old 1982:
At about 4:45 a.m., one owl flew silently across the road into the woods. Then the other. A crow awoke. Quickly rallying, it roused and summoned others of its kind to join the eternal corvine conspiracy to make day uncomfortable for the owls. The group moved slowly through the trees, each movement of the owls noted with an outburst of increasing volume, sounding like an unruly crowd at a football game-until the enemy and noisy pursuers were far in the distance.
The morning brightened into familiarity, dispelling most-but not all-of the totally unfamiliar world we had been living beside. Only the crows served as a talisman to the dreamers, to prove that the dream was real.