Everything And Again (And Again)
When the taxidermist wouldn’t let me buy
the magpie, rampant, on a bark-stripped branch
with a diamanté bracelet wriggling in its beak
because, tradition says, that bird’s reserved
for jewel thieves to give to one another,
it put the tin hat on a week that featured
a walk up a mountain to a café that had shut,
moth in my winter coat and a puddingless date.
Decode the magpie’s song and sing along:
My daddy is a dove, a raven’s my mum.
My feathers are dipped in midnight and noon,
sin and salvation, milk teeth and amalgam.
I once saw fourteen magpies in a day –
some pairs, some threes. They all belong to me.