Lonely and wild, the magpie flies
Skudding past clouds,
Beneath briars and under boughs.
He settles on a branch or fence post,
Then dives —
And the taffeta ties
Of his silken body glide
And pull down the curtain of the sky.
Where do you fly little magpie?
Where do you go and why?
A glancing feather;
The wink of an eye
Then his flight becomes incendiary:
And fire-lit, explodes into the sky.
Manchester, March 2015
Iceland, The Midnight Sun
At Erikshuis, late spring
My love, sometimes the night are lonely.
They are stark.
The arms of thin, bare trees are wands
flying like wings in the dark.
At least it should be dark, but instead
the sky is white as a popsicle;
wet and ice-light.
My longing feels deeper
set against this forever-day,
when the blackbirds and redwings
don’t know when to stop singing
and the grass grows twice as fast.
The old poets warn us:
Life is slippery as glass,
Beware what comes to pass.
What contradiction can I brook
against these words or the mauve slab
of sky I glimpse beyond a dusty window frame?
Only a name: lauguatunga,
the beautiful babbling tongue.
Reykjavik, May 2015