The Magpie - my king is a bird

The wind blows and I watch you

make your way up a young tree

with trunk and branches so thin

that you circle and hover

like a feathered pole dancer

dressed in iridescent green.

Such elegance, such zeal.

You shimmy delicately 

down an old cracked tiled roof,

sashay skilfully around 

the iron chimney stack,

not a speck of rust allowed 

to sully that sleek white vest.

So accomplished, so smart.

Here in this April garden

you hunt to feed your babies

that your chicks may grow strong

and leave the large domed nest,  

spreading their short dusty wings,

ready for both fight and play.

So dutiful, so benign.

May approaches, and you fly

over green fields and wide fen,

taking fruit from an orchard,

grumbling and chattering,

stealing eggs and attacking

featherless late born chicks.

So shocking, and so sly.

You push through the privet hedge

into the soft green meadow,

your brood, scared of neither cat

nor fox, knowing safety lies

in your knife-like slender beak

and your apotropaic eyes.

So much power, so much trust.

You stand here now, still and proud,

the monochrome defender

of my ancient wild garden

where, tho’ hounded and hated

by some, you are made welcome,

monarch in all your glory.

                                            Naomi

Each day is Easter Day

Where snowdrops and daffodils rested silent

beneath roofs of ice and warm blankets of snow,

witch hazel now blooms, its dry leafless branches 

clothed with flowers of yellow, gold and red,

their long ragged petals like shredded dandelions.

Along the cold shore's edge late white hellebores

turn their faces towards the promised new sun,

high on the cliff herring gulls build their new nests

crying to the wind as they wait for the dance.

On a green hill not so very far away,

his life's circle broken, his earthly work done,

a dying man hangs from a cross, as thunder

roars and lightning flashes across the dark sky

Red tulips lie crushed at the foot of the cross

like pools of blood on an old carpet of death.

But as our lord's spirit returns to his God,

life rises again this first Easter morning,

rejoins the circle, and continues the dance.

Each hallowed life is a precious gift offered

by a loving and compassionate Father,

he who choreographs the eternal circle

wherein we may now find our resurrection.

Every whispering flower, every singing bird,

each wave that gently kisses the golden sand

makes sweet music to accompany the dance,

for life is our circle, the circle our dance,

each day is Easter Day, and the dance goes on.

                                                                   Naomi