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.