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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