Le Pigeon

from the bridge and safe we watched
as it flapped and struggled against mossy wall
and slow undulations
of tourist boat water’s swell
its chest all puffed up useless,
occasional pauses
to consider grave predicament
whilst the lovers of dancing puppets
stopped to laugh a kiss between lips
and concerned friends flew by
wondering when would be best
to pick the dead meat from its carcass.



  1. Written in Paris last June.
    I saw it all.
    I have a photograph.
    It enthralls and saddens in equal measure.
    No one really cares about pigeons.
    But to me it explained everything.


  2. Your comment above acts as a continuation of the poem.
    - I see a series emerging "The Pigeon Poems" 1-100