Rain which washes stone and freshens wreaths
might level older vets like sniper fire.
Umbrellas, speedily deployed, volley
voluble pigeons into balcony seats.
The sun jabs cloud like a farmer forking mire
occluded by a crust of melancholy.
Pigeons in ‘the gods’ have much to say:
on feathered wings and naked arms; on choirs;
on human waywardness; on pigeon folly.
Now and then, just for a laugh they play
Where’s Wally?
Leave a Reply