A magpie-spirit flies
Into my attic window
Every Friday night,
And then some afternoons.
Plummeting to the asphalt,
Feathers on the roofs
Of neighbours’ cars
In reds, and Citroën blue,
Feathers in the roadside
And rhododendron, too.
Oh every time this happens,
Surprising me anew,
I rush downstairs, three
Apace, to where she
Died on frozen
Grounds below.

I try to start her corvid heart
With jumper clamps and cables,
But sometimes hearts are
Just too small,
Unstartable, unstable;
And that is why she visits me,
Asleep at a writing table.