The magpie's mood is never surly
every morning, wakening early,
he gargles music in his throat,
the liquid squabble of his throat.
Its silver stridencies of sound,
the bright confusions and the round
bell-cadences are pealed
over the frosty, half-ploughed field.
Then swooping down self confidently
from the fence-post or the tree,
he swaggers in pied feather coat,
and slips the fat worms down his throat.
Have loved this poem since I first found it in a copy of 'Surprises of the Sun' bought from the Adelaide University book shop in 1971. my favourite poem of all time, so Australian, so spare and beautiful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There are two mistakes in the first stanza. It should be 'waking' in line 2, and 'note' at the end of line 4.