In a garden shaded by trees,
Life outside washes by in the breath of the breeze
Which rides the bells of the canterburries
Warming to the sunlight bleeding through a perished fence
Mr Piebald walks to the stone ring of a bird bath,
And gazes dumb,
Into the shallow mirror of the pool…
Still. As it should be. No ripple nor wrinkle to stir this morning.
Is that a knocking? Or a tapping against some unchecked pipe?
Mr Piebald cups his ear against the copper mouth
And in the quiet cave of his mind, a cackle curses…
Cutting into every crevice and
Descending on his beating heart like a
A second cackle announces the form of the magpie,
Dark as sin against the hot iron of the morning,
Until a tightly coiled hose pipe quickly unravels to send it
and rattling into an overgrown ash.
A third cackle sends the magpie sweeping over the red roof
Only to drop
On the dry rim of the stone.
Goes the mirror pool,
As a quick tap
SHATTERS the still, into a
Myriad of careless dreams
Raining, sprinkling down in a faint spell.
“Devil, devil, I defy thee!”
Trembles Mr Piebald like a broken bell
And the magpie rattles its tongue and rises amidst the flame of his thoughts