The dying pigeon
Why will it not die
The pigeon on my lawn?
He comes every day
With features so forlorn.
His wings dragging the ground
And looking half-dead,
Yet still I feed him corn
Here, where he was bred
In that high Beech tree.
For you know what they do,
Nesting each and every month
The whole year through.
Ignorant of the end
Would that he were I,
Feeling no compunction
Peacefully to die.
Yet he struggles on
Oblivious the fight,
While we intervene
To spite the dying night.
This bird seeks no care.
Like me, he’s grey on grey,
The old wood pigeon
On my lawn today.
© RM Meyer,
Winswell Water, September 2020