On the plains of Andalucia a type of old-world vulture (Accipitridae) has a strange diet of almost exclusively bone. They drop the bones from height until they crack, then break them further on the ground and suck the marrow, usually distaining the meat. Their old name is the ossifrage meaning Bone-Breaker. Their ‘committee’ or ‘venue’ makes for an ugly sight but when they rise and spiral on the thermals and become a ‘kettle’ they are strangely beautiful although deeply ominous. Our time might be up. You get the feeling that we might be their next quarry.
Based on a lyric from the Pagan Harvest song Vultures (www.paganharvest.com).
1 - The Committee
You can hear the savage shrieks and cries
of the bearded vultures
in the bleak, high Andalucian plains.
Breaking bones on exposed rocks,
sucking the melting marrow dry.
Leaving bleached sharp anaemic remains,
ravaged. . .
to slowly fry.
Time denies nothing
to the life that has survived here.
In this empire time doesn't lie.
Like its cloudless, suicidal sky.
Vast and absolute.
But for us, time might be in short supply.
Brace yourselves. . .
for a long goodbye.
Crisp brittle beats and smacks
emanate from this grisly scavenging committee.
Joining forces from aeons back.
Fierce fast hard cracks,
signal this immutable pack’s immunity.
Echoing in accord for eternity.
Echoing. . .
Echoing in accord…
Echoing in accord for infinity.
*****
2 - Echoes
Echoes.
Echoes roar.
Bouncing off the barren crag-face.
Soaring to the edge of time
and cavernous space.
Echoes.
Echoes phased
in this queer, deviant place.
All bodies ruptured and snapped.
Identity erased
beyond trace.
Echoes.
Echoes fanned.
Flying over the desiccated land,
under the titanic clear cyanic vault,
where mirages of eerie crumbling castles hover
over soft sienna sand.
Echoes.
Echoes bent.
Warping across weird terrain.
Warning reverberations sent,
portentous of this old-world vulture’s
tainted intent.
*****
3 - The Kettle
Now, the vulture venue climbs,
each bird to its eccentric twisted course.
spiralling up and up
on the obscured thermal force.
Their ominous kettle of Bone-Breakers
slowly gyrates in unison,
as raindrop ripples swell
in wells of crystal water.
Circles upon circles intermingle
to the sound of the devil’s diabolical bell.
Foretelling of some new quarry
in this sorry arid hell.
Whirling,
Each in its own quirky orbit.
Watching,
Sharply focussed: every moment, every day.
Waiting,
For their next powerless prey.
Time's up Homo sapiens.
Soon there will be human carcases.
Fair human bones
shrouded with the vapours of human despair.
And the Bone-Breakers will still be there
ready,
spiralling, in the limpid air.
All Rights Reserved | Lawrence Reed