Memories and Magpies
Muriel Courtney
Winter sun, butter gold,
Flood the breakfast table.
The newspaper rustles.
Content we sit and sip tea
To a magpie chorus.
But on other days,
Our gypsy blood thrums
And we declare ourselves
Tired of open spaces
And ubiquitous eucalypts.
We long for bluebell woods
And buttressed castles,
Pocket handkerchief harbours
Or a table at a taverna
With ouzo, crashing plates.
We Yearn for foreign tounges,
The strange ways of strangers;
Walled cities, snow peaks and
Cottage window boxes ablaze
With scarlet geraniums.
We crave small scale busyness
Of landscape and people.
Buildings whose stones
Are lichened with history,
Mossed by the centuries.
We turn a page to consult
The latest exchange rates,
The latest turmoil abroad.
Content ourselves with
Memories and Magpies...
And who would mind the dog?
