There are dozens of magpies here.

All my magpie rhymes fall into disrepair

As I see all white and black lifelines flow through the sky

They say seven is for secrets, or the devil himself,

But eight must be for sunshine, and nine must be for rain,

And ten is for the rolling light ripping through the clubs again

Eleven means flying through the city on the wind

And twelve is the red on the lips that half-grinned,

Half-pressed together, and spoke like the soul of the teenage dream

And laughs through the campus town, as though uttering whispers and joyous screams

Flowing like the dream’s zephyr-blown hair, caught by the breeze

Dozens of them, whirling through the windy town

A million meanings, a million magpie pixels, like feathers blown around

The massive sky draws them up all from amongst us

The clouds cross the massive sky

The massive sky absorbs them

The massive sky reflects us

White and black lifelines

From thousands

From dozens

As the weather starts to change

And we dress up and go out and they cover our nights in feathers

We sparkle and shimmer black and white under the night-time city lights

First, for a fortnight; second, for joy;

Next, for the rest of our lives.

by Ben Leverett-Jaques

Share on Facebook