The Curse of The Magpie

The Curse of The Magpie

The magpie lands with thunder grace,

alone and sharp and out of place.

Its eye is black as buried ink,

it does not speak but it can think.

Good morning, magpie, how’s your wife?

The words roll out to steady life.

For in that gaze the old gods wake,

and curses bloom in every flake.

They fed on ash, they spoke in storms,

they dressed in feathers, shifting forms.

They marked the magpie as their tongue,

to carry grief from old lungs sung.

So I spit once upon the stone,

to send the omen back to bone.

The taste of salt, the scent of tin,

to lock the mischief out, not in.

Around the stump I turn three wide,

my shadow twisting at my side.

I see the branches bow and sway,

the gods are near but kept at bay.

I do not plead, I do not pray,

they answer those who look away.

I show respect, not fear, not rage,

I know the rules, I know the age.

I salute the bird, my fingers still,

in gesture born of frost and will.

No wind disturbs its black white breast,

no light reveals what’s in its nest.

Good morning, magpie, tell them this,

I guard my name, I hold my bliss.

Let no dark god come claim my skin,

I spit, I turn, they won’t get in.