A mischief of magpies,
drunk in my orchard,
feeding on a fermentation
of apples on the ground.
Their gulp was tittering,
amidst the apples littering
the autumn-gold windfall
that filled the boozy air.
This corvidae conventicle,
crowing incomprehensible
tidings of pleasure from their
treat of early-doors.
Getting playfully sillier,
as the season turns chillier,
in this last-gasp merriment
of flapping, stumbling dawn.
Pica, pica: splice the mainbrace,
call other lads and lasses too.
Magpies behaving badly, sadly
fighting like drunken yobbos do.
With the sun nowhere near
the yardarm, this apple-grog
filled, giggling, drunken mob,
are having such a good time here.
Do magpies suffer hangovers,
or regret their over indulgence?
It seems not, as the leftovers
disappear from my orchard floor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The superb imagery of this write made me at close range to these wonderful birds. Beautifully crafted.