In Defence of the Magpie

A magpie never stole a diamond,
was never a bird burglar or a winged jewel thief.
It got its bad name from old folk lore tales.
It seems its love of shiny things fostered that belief.

The magpie is a relation of the crow,
classified with the raven, the rook and the jackdaw.
It flaps and hops round its own neighbourhood.
The air is an open window, an unbolted door.

Rest my case in defence of the magpie.
It’s as innocent as its feathers, black, white and blue.
The magpie never stole a diamond.
All the evidence against it simply is not true.

The magpie may perch on your garden fence,
flutter round your redundant chimney pot on your roof,
never be popular as the robin,
free of the accuser who could volunteer no proof.

Myth of the Magpie

Myth of the Magpie

The myth of the magpie,
rooted in rural belief,
warns a window left open
invites in the magpie
to become a jewel thief.
Attracted to bright things,
be it a bit of silver foil,
a shard of green glass,
a sapphire, ruby, diamond or pearl,
the magpie does not measure value,
like a manor born girl.
Now to the robbery
at a rather grand hall.
In a red fume at the crime,
the lord and the lady
summoned a detective to call.
A jewel box they showed him,
now empty of treasure,
in a room high in a tower.
By the case he was baffled,
had no marks to magnify,
in the gardens no footprint,
no trodden down flower.
The detective chuckled
when he worked out the crime,
relieved to have done so,
after a long, fruitless time.
“I know the culprit.
It may sound absurd,”
he told the lord and the lady,
“but I have concluded,
the robber must have had wings,
in short, the burglar was a bird.
I suggest your gamekeeper
puts his skills to the test,
search the trees for a magpie.
I wager the jewels
will be found in its nest.”
Of human law free, the magpie
stamps on its bright booty,
hid under twig, slate and leaf,
unaware of the gamekeeper,
searching for a winged thief.
The real crook is the rook,
the magpie may say,
as it caws to a crow,
if it would stay away.

Spring in England

Spring in England

In the higher branches of the evergreens,
three magpies squabble with a crow.
Why and what it means only they would know.
A pigeon disturbs them,
flutters down, lands nearby.
Not bound to stay, they flap away,
below the blue spring sky.
A few starlings nod their heads,
pace this way and that,
inspect the lawn for worms,
a trail of slug or snail,
watched from behind reeds
by a crouching cat,
on this bright, contented day.
Even better will come, I can safely say.
Though that on the news is real,
what I see in my garden
is spring in England as it has always been,
birds alert, perched, in flight,
in worlds of blue and green.
And I know, when waked by love,
be it in winter or in spring,
the heart is a tender thing,
for it is then exposed, vulnerable.
The mind concludes
that before roused by love,
the heart merely functions,
is barely attended to,
but when the mind is conscious of love,
the heart is stirred, like a bird,
breathes, pines to sing.
It is then when the heart is a tender thing.