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magpie

magpie

I count Good morning mr magpie...

One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy,

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret,

Never to be told.

Eight for a wish,

Nine for a kiss,

Ten for a bird,

You must not miss

 

It was a game of counting.

One magpie

Two magpies

Three magpies

Four

 

It was  a game my mother taught,

when I was small.

​

If we held still for a moment.

Searched for a beat of his  wing,

We could see the future in our chimne tops begin.

 

A future of Sorrow

Or one of Joy

Of Secrets and wishes...

​

In those moments my mother and I shared a quiet stillness,

concentration, a rare delicate patience.

A moment suspended in hope,

to catch a glance at that next beat of mr magpies wings.

 

With time, I bent the rules on what defined mr magpie.

I could squint my eyes tightly,

with intentions to fool a good thing into happening.

I could see that unusually large, 

scruffy ol' pidgin perched upon the chimney top

to be seven for a secret never to be told.

As I had no interest in fantasies of six and gold.

 

Today I catch myself sill gazing at chimne tops,

Scouting for flutters of his wings,

The illusive mr magpie

has me forever squinting at pidgins.

 

For joy

For a secret

For a wish

For a kiss

To see that extra magpie,

grasping at hope

stuffing hands for those same comforts,

my mother and I searched for when I was small.

 

Good morning Mr magpie the count has just begun. 

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