A Single Magpie

It skirts past the sky with the wind in my eyes;

And habit and count makes me scan

But its brother or lover are not to be found;

Just a glide of the wings headed earthbound.

No thought of sorrow when it skirts past the graves;

Unruffled at the low trees and gulls

It skates, raking skies then scratching tiles;

And brushing and bright eyed looks back.

Hooked then set flushed on its roof

Against assumption our shared humour is proof

The black and white coat is a joy to behold

And why not be happy with that?

Have a wonderful week,

J.W.H. Hobbs.