I’ve been crippled with migraines lately, and this picture, that I used earlier, stuck in my head, with a magpie flying behind it. A line of text repeated itself over and over, and I spent a sleepless night wondering what came next. The poem is perhaps one that migraine sufferers will understand.
The magpie swept beneath the bridge.
Grey sky, grey water, grey stone,
The monochrome bird swept under the bridge,
Silent as fear through the flickering mist.
What lies beyond the bridge, I cannot see,
What swallows up its noisy clattering,
Stills its supreme avian arrogance.
The film stops, shudders, rewinds,
And the magpie stoops, floats into the grey,
Again and again with the flicker of mist.
The magpie swept beneath the bridge,
Caught in the jaws of silence,
Perhaps by the troll beneath the bridge.
Is that where you flew when you said goodbye,
Into the silent mist-swirling water,
With your trolls and your grinding teeth?
You swept with the magpie beneath the bridge,
Not into skies of tranquil blue,
For I would see you still, your smiling face,
Hear the music of your joyful laughter,
And I would have a grain of hope.