Rising Tide

I met a man from Hokkaido
At the beach one day who said:

“Call a workman from another city
When you dismantle a magpie nest.

They take their revenge if
They know where you live:
Shit stream down windows,
Wing mirrors outpecked.

The last thing you want
Is your very own Tippi Hedren moment,
Flapping around as the music crescendos
Except there won’t be a “Cut!”
Only the sound of your screams and
Streaks of blue and black clawing
In an otherwise grey sky.”

Behind me, the waves that lapped King Canute’s feet
Roared and reared against the shore:
Earth in her glory, crying out for retribution
Surveying her devastation in despair.

By Tamiko Dooley