24 May 2009
The magpie
with his sleek black wings and soft white back
hops onto the chair under the window,
listens to me rehearsing.
I look him in the eye and declaim at him.
When I finish the poem he hops up onto the windowsill, a bold
question.
“Hey! What are you doing? You can’t come in the house!”
He hops down onto the paving and looks at me reproachfully.
“Well … you might make a mess. You might
poo on the table. I could
let you in if you promise not to
poo on the table …
or if you promise to clean up after yourself …”
He looks at me.
“Or do you have a
message for me?”
He looks at me.
“You’re a beautiful boy,
aren’t you? Look at that
beautiful back.”
He picks something out of the gutter and swallows it
then struts slowly away.
I threaten him. “I’ll write a poem about you.”
Jackson 