Magpie
Evie Smith
I, a magpie, have flown high above many streets,
yet your dove-wings once caught my eye.
Magpies are notoriously fond of shiny treats.
Do you see the way you shimmer when you fly?
The magpie’s motivations, endlessly told,
Simple birds as they are,
they can’t resist anything made of gold;
little did I know, that meant your heart.
For the first time, I wanted to see the ground,
Because life down there fit you like silk gloves.
The magpie’s wings were a dark blue background,
Fit to stay as such for the starry shine of the dove’s.
Nothing, I concur, could’ve compared to the sight,
of your wings’ iridescent thrill.
The magpie’s wings were of the night,
but the dove’s were from even higher still.
My wings weren’t always patchwork,
in fact, they were once the deepest navy blue.
But I only saw a blank canvas for artwork.
They’re white because I wanted to be like you.
When you sit down next to me in the mundane,
it’s like it’s the first time –
I feel that I’m meeting you all over again.
This time, there are no feathers in sight.
I see parts of you in me,
and ever the same reversed.
Part of your golden heart is all I want to be,
Chasing it would make me a magpie at worst.
Our eyes meet,
A single heartbeat.
You smile when you look back at me,
but your expression says so much more than you know.
Your dove-eyes are so confused yet carefree.
You must wonder why I stare at you so.
I smile and look away as I feel my feathers fall through,
My grin isn’t a copy of yours – now I can see:
Maybe all that I see when I look at you,
you see when you look at me.