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