I did not say good morning
To a magpie, solitary fellow,
Conspiring with a rooftop
To clag my hindered eyelids.

Nothing changed.
The day stayed the same.
Grey, motionless torpor.

A leaf appeasing gravity
Spiralled to the floor;
Breathing-in is a luxury
I cannot afford.

Under a lantern-clad ladder
Leaning up into Valhalla
I mindlessly walked;
I stamped on cracks,
Send me back,
And smashed a mirror
With my orb.

Nothing changed.
The night stayed the same.
Sirens, waves of woe
And obsolete laws.

That magpie loosened its claws
And disappeared into
All-consuming hours
Which do devour in tides
Both the man and the boy.

Corvid Heart

A magpie-spirit flies
Into my attic window
Every Friday night,
And then some afternoons.
Plummeting to the asphalt,
Feathers on the roofs
Of neighbours’ cars
In reds, and Citroën blue,
Feathers in the roadside
And rhododendron, too.
Oh every time this happens,
Surprising me anew,
I rush downstairs, three
Apace, to where she
Died on frozen
Grounds below.

I try to start her corvid heart
With jumper clamps and cables,
But sometimes hearts are
Just too small,
Unstartable, unstable;
And that is why she visits me,
Asleep at a writing table.


A boundless energy of children
On a neighbour’s trampoline,
Mine’s been long converted
By a furtive military.

Depression in ruins abundant,
The city’s stolen heart,
The only buildings standing
Are the empty mosque and church.

My mind of mulchy-mud detritus,
Thoughts like leaves on a lawn;
A modern meditating Augeas,
I found a magpie’s claw.

The shops are all deserted,
Defying life to go outside,
Explosives left below the surface,
The countryside tripwired.

They said it would be different
But the future’s just the same,
I heard the people singing
As they shovelled earth for graves.

The sun shines on the garden,
Those neighbours are delightful,
But my mind was long since hardened
By something far more frightful.

Haiku #191 – #195


July begins,
But not suffering.
A fat magpie fluffs its wings.


Verbena boxed
By canes and string.
Nature knows parameters.


A bystander, limted
by their word,
Will not disrupt or intervene.


I saw flames in the carpet.
Summer sends its messages
To my subconscious, anon.


These messages thrust
Upwardly the threat
Of my own complacency.