NEVER TO BE TOLD

Oh joy!
Not one but two

gentlemen magpies

conversing on
my crazy paving.

Two Fred Astaires in tails
awaiting their Ginger Rogers'

or merely waiters
enquiring

"Would Sir like to savour
the moment?"

Their white so....white.

Their black so...black
yet not-so...black.

Their viridian sheen
treasure for the eyes.

I teach my little girl
to rhyme them.

One for. . .
Two for. . .

as another
joins them.

"3 for a girl!""
I tell her.

"That's you!"
"That's me?"

All day she
chants and plays:

"I'm a magpie I'm
a magpie!"

Years later
when she has grown

far far
beyond this moment

( transformed into
a Punk Goth Princess )

she asks me why
I used to call her my magpie.

"Ah..." I say
kissing her spikey hair.

"Secret. . .
. . .never to be told."