Last Thursday?
That was the very hot day
When the wood pigeon laid down on the grass
To rest.
Wisely turning its head from side to side,
Watching for magpies
And for crows,
Knowing that if they spot him
He’ll have to move fast,
Unfurling his wings and ready for flight
In an instant.

For these killer birds,
Given half a chance
Will peck him to death.
Unpicking his feathery body
Until it lay all around him on the baking grass.
Dove grey feathers dotted with blood
Lying silent in the hot sun.
His agony fading in the morning air.

This small bird is careful
Not to let that happen to him.
Taking off the moment the long dark leaves
On the Cherry tree begin to shake.
Hiding the unfriendly presence
That has already landed
With its iron beak and deadly intentions.

So that’s him gone then,
Soaring into the sun,
His wings almost the colour of rain,
Vanishing into the trees in the summery distance.

©2026 GWEN GRANT