one flew over the magpie's nest

How the wee magpie has grown.

I have resisted naming her as I know soon she must go into the wild but secretly I call her Morgana - who was Merlin's muse. When I go into the shade tunnel which is her territory now she flies onto my shoulder and chats away, sometimes playing with my earring or sitting on my head. We have a lot to talk about.

The other day I took a friend to meet her and she gave her first warning cry and flew to the other end of the tunnel looking crossly at me. At first I thought it was because there was another human there and I was pleased that when she finally went she wouldn't sit on just anyone's shoulder and play with their earrings.

Some people don't care for magpies.

 However when I visited her again on my own she did the same thing. I was wearing an arterial blood red top and I then remember a friend telling me his pet jackdaw couldn't stand it when he walked in wearing a red jersey. I went away and returned in dull umber brown and she was back to happily sitting on my head and telling me about her life. I don't know what this is about - did she think I was a giant red currant or what? I know bulls are colour blind - at least they don't recognise red so I was intrigued. Perhaps it was just a fashion statement.

Here she is on one of her free form flying trips. If she hears me in the garden or on the track she shouts a welcome and flies down to greet me and then the worse thing is she marches around on the ground following in my footsteps and telling me things. If I sit on the bench she comes and sits with me but we both have to keep a beady eye out for any of the dogs or any of the cats. I don't think this is a Good Thing.

Another baby from the wild life centre to look after - this happy jay with his tiny mohican who loves being hand fed and is completely adorable. He is in the room where the ducks had been before moving into the stable. Ducks in the stable are no substitute for the horses.

Here is Rocket on his first trip to London. The train was very crowded and the compartment between the carriages which I'd hoped to occupy was full of nuns. They looked guilty - as if they'd smuggled an angel in with them and hadn't bought him a ticket.

Here are the errant ducklings enjoying a bath to waterproof their feathers. I have found homes for three of them and are keeping the white one and the tiniest who are both female. I'll put them with the boys in the back garden and hope they all behave themselves.

Pocket who has taken a sneak preview of this blog post asks me what exactly had flown over the magpie's nest. I told him it was just playing around with a book and a film title. A sort of Wings of Desire he asked flapping his arms as if he too had wings.

Well not really I reply though that is one of my most favourite films. 

Ah like me the angel tires of his purely ethereal life of merely overseeing human activity and longs for the joys of physical existence. 

But you don't live a purely ethereal life I tell him. 

What's ethereal about leaving headless mice on the doormat or a pair of rabbit's ears in the bathroom?

  I am not really of this world he replies taking a swipe at Rocket's tail  and if I got rid of my demons I'd lose my angels. 

Tennessee Williams said that I told him. "I didn't know you were familiar with his work. I suppose you might have read Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ?"

 But he just shrugged, told me he had sat on plenty of hot tin roofs and why would he bother to read that, played for a while with a white feather that was on the sofa, gave me a wink and asked what was for dinner.

This year the roses have been amazing

I love this poem by David Harmer. I think the nuns would too. 

At the Nag's Head with Gabriel

 

The place is rammed but I spot him a mile off

to be honest, there are easier pubs round here

to be that different in. Long yellow hair curled

over his shoulders, white shirt, white suit.

Like I say, Mr Trouble is about to barge in,

buy him a drink. Except that doesn't happen.

He's a pillar of calm surrounded by madness.

Two of the nastiest bastards I know, Dekker and Byron,

are laughing at something he's whispered.

They call him Dekker because he likes using drills

Byron because he's a twat. But they're like two kids

in a sweet shop, giggling Thanks for that mate.

He turns, sees me staring as I grab a pint.

His eyes blaze blue, then violet, then black.

Light dazzles around him. It streams

from every pore of his body, like a star exploding.

Then it just switches off and no-one has noticed.

I follow as he nods me outside.

Down the alley at the back of the pub

he leans on a wall, ciggie cupped in his hand

blowing smoke to the clouds. He drains his glass.

I'm off duty he says, as if that explains everything.

Tomorrow I've got some difficult calls

so I thought I'd nick off work, relax with you guys.

You look like a bloke who needs some luck.

I agree, who'd argue with that? He hands me a note.

That's all the horses, 50 to 1 or better, at Donny this week

put all you've got on their snotters

each one of them winners, I guarantee it. He seems

to flicker, shifts from one patch of sun to another.

There's a rustle and a flap of what must be feathers

and he's gone, disappeared. The note just says

Love from Big G, be lucky. I was.

Put a grand on each one, smack on the nose

just like he said, cleaned up the lot.

By David Harmer