On Monday Morning Magpie Sang
On Monday morning magpie sang.
I thought it was for me.
He warbled high, he warbled low,
With joy for me to see.
His head leaned back, beak to the sky
The tumbling notes rang out.
He would have sung them anyway
If no one was about.
As sun shone through the misty morn
His song continued clear.
The silences between the tunes
Delightful to my ear.
On Tuesday morning, once again
The scruffy magpie sang.
His liquid notes, from one to next,
All through the air it rang.
‘Twas for himself, the joy of life!
On sunny mornings, sing!
To other creatures, me and them,
True pleasure did it bring.
On Wednesday morning, cleaned the house,
No outside time for me.
On Thursday an appointment made
And that would have to be.
When Friday came I’d quite forgot
To miss my magpie friend.
Then at stormy evening time, I mourned.
I found him dead,
I cried because I realised
That he was old and weak.
But even so he’d sung out clear
And given joy to me.
His song goes on forever
Lilting, weaving through the sky.
A sound like that reverberates
And never will run dry.
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