A Tidings of Magpies

Apology by Richard Wilbur A word sticks in the wind's throat; A wind-launch drifts in the wells of rye; Sometimes, in broad silence, The hanging apples distil their darkness. You, in a green dress, calling, and with brown hair, Who come by the field-path now, whose name I say Softly, forgive me love if I also call you Wind's word, apple-heart, haven of grasses.

by Louis Jenkins January finally drags into February and one fumbles with numb fingers at the ordinary knots and hooks of life. People are irritable, difficult. Some days you want to stay in bed with the covers over your head and dream of paradise. A place where the warm sea washes the white sand. There are a few palm trees on the higher ground, many brightly colored fish in the lagoon, waves breaking on the reef farther out. No one in sight. Occasionally an incredibly large, split-second shark darkens the clear water. Sea birds ride the wind currents, albatross, kittiwake, ... and pass on. Day after day, sea wind and perfect sky .... You make a big heap of driftwood on the beach I've been down for the count with  all of some variation of the many influenza strains not covered by the 2013 flu vaccine. There's been much moaning and gnashing of teeth; usually the cat, as I've attempted to carry him with me from one unsatisfactory lay-about spot to anoth...