Poems (Forrest)/Seven magpies
SEVEN MAGPIES"Seven magpies for a witch."—Lancashire proverb.
Seven magpies have I found in between the barley sheaves,Seven magpies like a shadow crossed the poplar's yellow leaves,Seven magpies in the hollow where the brambles crowd the leas,Knitting with their thorny fingers olive stockings for the trees;Seven magpies—was I dreaming, drugged with spice of afternoon,When I saw their black wings flitting o'er the golden harvest moon?And a ghostly light was playing in the stubble here and there,While the glistening grain-stooks quivered to the gambollings of a hare!
When the grass was wet this morning with the weavings of the dew,From the glade among the oak-trees seven birds across it flew!Now I find the secret pathway lifted to the larch-ringed hill,Winding like a dappled ribbon—and the wings are with me still! Noon! A drowse of scented sunshine soaked in resins of the pine;Sable feet of seven magpies keep a dancing march with mine;And when violet-vestured evening looks athwart the darkening zone,Will the witch's seven servants set their measure to my own,Till, when pallid stars are peering at the chinks of Heaven's door,I shall see a ruby signal flashing on the valley's floor,And the shadow rising, falling, of the black cat by the fire,Till the cavern in the mountain woos me as a heart's desire?
Be she old and worn and wizened, with her scant locks snaky-grey,And her withered breasts forgetting all the lovers of her day,Then I shall go laughing downward to the safety of the plain,Knowing there be maids more comely where a man may kiss again.But if she be small and subtle, with a face moon-pale and fair,Twisting scarlet rowan-berries in the storm-clouds of her hair,With a mocking mouth and dewy, and a firm breast, almond-white,Then the Curse of Seven Magpies shall be on me like a blight!