A poem

THE WRECK OF THE PIGEON

days and nights of high wind

driven at high tide
across the garden strait
into the brick walls
of ancient privies
the land-locked bird
drops stunned
breathless sinks
lifeless lies
washed up
on dry land

early in the morning
through the bedroom window
I see the feathered keel
upturned in the garden
blue-grey hull
smooth as stone

wreckers
early risers
drag the hulk
onto the lawn
take the head

when I go out
ash-grey feathers
mark the spot
stirring in the wind
that still blows

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