The Lucky Charm (inspired by November's theme: Lucky Charm)

When the future is unclear

You unglove my palm

And when I’m lost

You take my arm

When I feel vulnerable

You never harm

I tilt at windmills

And you disarm

I’m overheated

And you calm

When I’m unravelling

you darn

I’m lucky

You’re the charm.

MAGPIE (inspired by October's theme: Magpie)

Nobody knows the story of how I died, or how I misunderstood the warnings when my death was correctly predicted. It began when I made the decision to fence-off my property after frequent overnight intrusions in my garden.  I’d never seen an interloper but there were signs.  The garden, my pride and joy since my retirement, told me that someone or something had been there.  Depressions in the finely-trimmed lawn showed where something heavy had laid. The careful clustering of my potted plants the evidence of another’s hand at work. Strange, unintelligible markings appeared in the condensation on my greenhouse glass. The compost heap disturbed, with Autumn leaves scattered in the flower beds. Sticks, twine and pieces of paper, found knotted together and hanging from the rose arbour.

Every day I would take my morning coffee onto the patio and note the handiwork of my intruder. After the first week or so I considered installing a security camera or motion-sensitive lighting, but this seemed like an overreaction to some innocent, childish play.  I felt no threat.  Within a moment or two I could straighten things out and the garden would perfect again. I was not fearful. But I was curious.

Since the abrupt passing of my wife, I had assumed the guardianship of the garden and had changed it considerably.  The lawn now neatly-edged and mown, the borders were no longer overgown with straggly, assorted plants competing for space.  Now the sported tidy rows of colour. Red roses on each side and yellow along the bottom. The pollarded trees allowed more sunlight into the corners and my careful topiary had brought shape to the unruly hedging. Gone were the untidy feeders and the clutter that she had allowed to collect.  I was proud of my garden and of my new role as head gardener.

One morning, as I took my coffee into the garden I tripped over a rake. I fell, my cup smashing on the patio stones. As I lay there gathering my thoughts and assessing my injuries, I heard laughter. I looked around but I was alone. Again I heard laughter and looking up I spied a magpie sitting on the guttering above my house. He looked at me and laughed again. Most people know that magpies are talented mimics but I was surprised how human this laughter sounded. I carefully got to my feet and picked up the rake. I knew I hadn’t left it out.  This was the work of my nighttime intruder but this prank was more serious.  As I returned the rake to the tool-shed I made the decision to build a fence around my garden and put a stop to this nonsense.

Once the wooden posts and palings were delivered I set to work.  I wanted this fence to be robust and at least six feet tall.  So I began by digging-out a series of deep holes at regular intervals down one side of the garden.  The work was hard and by the end of the day I had only dug four holes and put up two posts.  My back ached as I made my way back from the tool-shed where I saw the magpie sitting on top of one of the posts watching me closely.

I smiled, “No, it’s not meant to keep you out,” I joked. The magpie laughed.

The next morning there was a pair of magpies on the fence posts. They stayed there all day as I laboured in the sun digging a further three holes and mixing the cement to secure another post.  I was exhausted, feeling weak and faint.  Overwhelmed with dizziness, I collapsed into my patio chair and tried to regain my strength. As I struggled to breathe, I heard another laugh and looking up saw that a third magpie had settled on the recently-erected post.

“What’s this, boys?” I panted, remembering the old rhyme. “Is it three for a letter?”

I wasn’t sure; three for a girl or three for a letter? I dragged myself indoors, laid on the sofa and instantly fell asleep. There I dreamt. I dreamt about the three magpies sitting high on my fence-posts. And in my dream I spoke to them.

“You like my garden then, do you? You must have noticed all the changes I have made?” I enquired.

“Not for the better,” spoke the first magpie. “This garden was once a happy place for birds and all creatures.”

“Especially those of the night,” said the second.

“Oh, come on,” I argued. “It was an untidy, unloved mess.”

“It was loved,” spoke the third. “By one who loved all.”

I was astounded, “You mean my wife? She left it in a mess.”

“She welcomed us. All of us. Now it is no place for creatures.”

“Well you three seem comfortable enough,” I retorted.

The first magpie swooped down and sat on my shoulder. I was too tired to even raise an arm as it turned its head to look directly into my eye. “Do you always ignore warnings?”

“What warnings?”

“Your body aches. The work you undertake pains you.  That is a warning, do you not think?”

“I’m old. I ache. It’s normal,” I said, but in fact my arms were throbbing and I felt a weight in my chest.

“What about we three? Are we not a warning?”

“Ha! You’re threatening me?” I would have laughed, if I had had the breath; if I hadn’t feel the stabbing pain in my arm. “What will you do then the three of you? Bring me a girl? Or maybe deliver me a letter? A threatening letter?”

The magpie leaned in towards my head. “What girl? What letter do you talk of?”

“You know.  The old magpie poem. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for letter. Or is it a girl? There are three of you. Which is it I should expect? Or be warned of?”

“You do not know the true Magpie poem.  The one we know. You are old, but if you were older you would know the true words.”

“Go ahead! Tell me,” I gasped, my body twisting in pain

And together they chanted, “One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral, four for a birth.”

I ignored the warning signs; the aches and pains from my aging body. And I misunderstood the message given by the magpies. Now I understand…but too late. But now you know my story.