In honour of the wood pigeon

Stimulated by a recent poetic exercise I was given (Stroud is an interesting place), I composed this piece of free verse in honour of a bird most familiar to English soil and sky: the wood pigeon.

Collared like a reverend;

Jumpy like a runner at the starting line;

Cooing like an adoring crowd,

Rootling around

For bugs and whatnot.

They call you invasive,

But that’s just Jungian shadow projection.

They say that to all the species that are doing well thanks to us.

So as I quick-fry one of his kin

I raise a glass to Brother Wood Pigeon.