Wednesday, 26 September 2018


You pigeon, so grand, in your well-fed

suit walking our bit of grass like it’s

the lawn at Downton Abbey, the one

you hire locals to mow. Little would

we know, you were the one who

drove straight at the bedroom window

smashed it and brought terror to

two seven year olds. It was you,

then, who couldn’t get out, and

you couldn’t make up whether to

walk or fly, every time you opened

your wings you hit the wall. And you

shat on the table. Not so grand. Then.

I opened the window and flapped

a towel behind you and you were away,

beating the air like nothing had happened.

Gone, without a thank you.