We plodded to the bluff, and saw a void
Between striated and serrated walls
Of stone. The raptors ruled that absence, toyed
With’the wind that herds and harries clouds, and bawls
Around the pinnacles, and, crumbling, falls.
Those currents which they’ve bridled, can they see
As interweaving pathways in the air?
And do they revel in their mastery,
Who seem to move in that which is not there,
And dance in three dimensions, debonair?
Perhaps in every life, though feebly planned,
One time arrives – perhaps, in some, it’s more –
When that which you inhabit, you command,
And, rapt in being, in your sky you soar.
We were convinced that the birds we’d seen were eagles. When we got back and zoomed in on our grainy photos, we realised – there was no getting away from it – that they were vultures.
Well, what does it matter? I reckon, it’s all about what G. K. Chesterton meant when he talked about the difference between the mythical lion (the symbol of chivalry which appears on shields and the England shirt) and the real lion (which lives in Africa and is probably no more noble than any other predator). He argues that the mythical one, firstly, does actually exist as a concept, even if it hasn’t got a physical incarnation; and secondly, that it actually matters more, in cultural terms, than the real lion – which most of us are also quite unlikely to see from day to day. What we wanted to have seen was a flock – if they would deign to appear in flocks – of mythical eagles, which are noble and valiant and monarchs of all they survey. We didn’t want to have seen a flock of vultures, who, as we know, work in estate agents or the City of London or the nastier end of journalism.
What we actually saw, however, was a phenomenal spectacle. And there’s nothing like finding yourself admiring something you didn’t expect to like, to make you acknowledge the prejudices you didn’t know you had.
You will see, even now, that I have felt obliged to call this poem “Griffons”.