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

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