Pigeon

A man tattooed blue with signs and wonders
Fed pigeons at his front door and windows.
Pink and grey knew time of day and the toss.
The moral of this story is stay close.
Upon cobbles they wobbled and slept on sills
That monitored his movements with soft trills.
Company on a cold day suns its due.
The moral of this story is thank you.
Gone now he's gone, it's an old city scene
Minded like thousands, a picture too soon.
Birds have flown when there's no-one awaits.
The moral of this story is keep watch;
Take time with strugglers, strollers and stragglers;
Free associate with peaceful settlers.

Pigeon (April)

At home, one or two peck the herbal paths. In the next street there’s a pigeon house. They waddle along neighbouring roof-tiles, descend when no-one’s looking. Though cluttering flutter in city squares, in Venice a menace, here they coo in summer heat and by April meander minding their own business, their presence a presence, their notes sweet. At work there’s a French door near my desk. Hours spent cataloguing, replying to emails, applying for grants, editing minutes, only then single or double move past glass casements, searching for grain. Eyes perfect circles, tails swaying like vanes, their presence is noted.