The train’s delayed and while I wait,
I gauge my luck – or lack thereof –
in magpies: the furl of caping wings,
and splay-tailed swoop to perch
high in the winter cage of track-side trees
whose trunks are evergreened by ivy.
The magpies were too far away to get a photo, but this blackbird seemed to think that if he sat still enough I wouldn’t notice him.
Three – four – nine – two; three – one:
random magpies map my life
in black and white.
One for sorrow, two for joy; three for a girl and four for a boy; five for silver, six for gold…
There were six magpies bickering in the trees by the river last night. Sadly, I fear they weren’t foretelling the imminent receipt of a large fortune, just the arrival of sunset over the lake:
Dark blades slice through the air, turn
sideways to the sun, flash silver, turn
into bright fish that glide in endless blue.
There are no swallows in the picture as they move too fast for my limited photography skills. The sky, on the other hand, is never-ending blue and doesn’t pose the same problems.
The post title is “swallows II” because this is not the first poem I have posted about swallows.
don't confuse the narrator 