Boomslang Poetry


That solitary, fat magpie is pursuing me again;
this dream-stealer always catches me
off-guard and I end enveloped in tears.

Last time he appeared up ahead on the meadow
path, dropping green feathers. On the underground
today he sat on the seat beside mine.

He perched on my shiny screen gripping with
sharp claws and later he popped out of
the water-cooler as I passed by thirsty.

He was quiet, just staring, beady, black.
Before, he cawed angrily, as if Id stolen something
of his. Next time, who knows, perhaps

some other bling will catch his gaze, not
the mirrored quick of my eye, and maybe
then my dark mood will turn to white.