Wednesday, 27 October 2010

Years ago a pigeon lay dead
in the gutter near our house,
killed by a car.
Its mate pattered to and fro beside it
distressed that it didn't rise and fly.
I couldn't help.

One evenning walking through a city square
in Mexico, we passed an injured pigeon
fluttering on the ground.
Its flapping wings only turned itself around.
It couldn't fly.
I went back to crush its head with my foot.

The neighbour's cat began to live in the road,
dozing the day away curled round itself
on the warm tarmac.
(Your sofa was more comfortable.)
It didn't seem to mind the hard surface,
refusing to budge unless forced to.
(You also didn't stir much.)
Pedestrians paused to wonder if it was dead,
killed by a car perhaps, and some lady drivers
even stopped and got out to ask it to move.
Little girls on their way to and from school
got to know and stroke it.
(You didn't have many visitors
but neither did you want them.)
When it rained, the cat tried to shelter under
a nearby bush, its fur sequined with water droplets.
Eventually it was found dead on the back doorstep
of a neighbour's house, not its own.
(Eventually you asked to go to the hospice.)

No comments:

Post a Comment