A scarred brain draws no pictures

 

The pigeon poems are multiplying

they drift on to the head

            of the Roman statue

St Paul wafts them away

            as he writes letters home

Miles Davis and Jimmy Hendrix are busking

The pigeon poems are learning to sing

 

A SWOOP OF BROWN AND GREY

SURVIVAL IS THE CURRENT WE MUST RIDE

PERCHED ON THE ‘E’ OF ARNDALE

 

A knock at the window with a compass sun in your head

Leads you to a total alien at the shore.

A dead pigeon hangs from the scaffolding

A murmur of wind surfs its redundant wings.

 

He who hesitates finds the umbrella

A ravens needling eye spied grandma’s food

            with blood curdling tones

 

Pigeon pie cooked well in an old gallery

lock away in a mind’s cupboard

To repeat – Black Black Black

white heat