Day Seven

The magpies are chattering again
Passing messages from cork oak to cork oak
In the northwest wind.
They ignore the lore of
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Too busy making their empires
Under the fitful sun.
One of them,
The smallest,
Goads a swarm of gulls
Across the roofs of the city,
Swoops in circles,
Picks up a thermal here and there
To speed recklessly between chimney pots
And aerials, in a never-ending circle
Until the gulls, confused,
Lose interest and the chase is over,
Distraction that it was.
And in the crown of the oak
A golden thing simmers.