Poetry of Issue #7        Page 50

The Magpies

The magpies are back. It's strange
to think how much I hated them
when I first came to the house.
I remember coming up the drive
in the taxi from the station, seeing
them lined up along the garden
wall like that, preening their
feathers. Today there was one
perched on the frost-rimed branch
of yew right outside my window
and I flicked my hand at him as
if I were driving away bad luck.
Then I started counting others
that came while I dressed,
shivering next to the window.
One on the yew tree. A second
one on the weather vane of
the folly. A third on the wall
of the kitchen garden. And for
a moment it scared me thinking
it seemed like an omen. Then
there were more on the frozen
lawn. Four, five... six... and one
hopping across the flags of the
terrace, pecking at the ice on
the covers over the table and
chairs. I closed my eyes,
wishing all of them would
fly away and just leave me

  Bobbi Sinha-Morey