Death in the Garden


It is a testing time for this love-hate relationship between me and


my magpies. ‘Two for joy’, the rhyme says but this is not always so! I love them for their immaculate, pied plumage, No shades of grey or in-between. Black feathers against white, kept pristine and clean With morning baths when they scatter water drops That shine like diamonds in the light.


In the spring I watched their courtship She had three suitors. They strutted up and down before her Clucking ‘Be mine! Be mine!’ Trying to impress with their bold magnificence. Her chosen one proffered a leaf he had plucked from the willow tree. Her black beak closed on it tenderly. Together they walked across the lawn To mate discreetly and plan where to build their home, An intricately woven basket hidden in the nearby wood.


Each time I peered out at the garden in the summer dawn One of them was there, pecking out grubs and worms, Grateful for the scraps that appeared daily on the bird-table. They have raised three young and will soon Drive them out of the garden, like God in Eden.


Today it happened - the awful death-bringing swoop On an unsuspecting blackbird. The strike was so precise and sudden! A squawk of terror and then silence. The black body was impaled on the thorny branch of a rose-tree; Feathers flew and blood flowed red as the roses.


I was filled with anger, hot and reason-consuming. One of my beautiful, dark singers was slain,


One that had carolled his glorious song in the days of May and June. I ran into the garden shouting to drive the assassin away. He flew up with an indignant rattling cry, Wings whirring in dizzy circles, and flew off the to the distant trees.


I dug a small hole. Buried the still warm body, Pitying the stillness, the cessation of tune And then I felt ashamed. The reason why? I had judged my garden king By my own hypocritical, human standards!


Now he perches on the bird-bath, Sips elegantly, tilting a sharp, black beak. He stares at me boldly. He knows no guilt about his predatory act.


I must accept him as he is - strong, cruel, beautiful; A clever and cunning survivor. It is a lesson I must learn because I love him.


26 Gill Saunders


Death in the Garden


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