“Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about.”
– Oscar Wilde
It’s been over a year now.
Much like the one-legged pigeon that nests outside my mum’s bedroom window, poetry appears to have settled in for the long haul. It coos absently at inconvenient moments and flies away if ever I open the pane to have a stern word. But much like my mum and her pigeon, I’ve grown attached.
Occasionally she sits and watches it. It preens its feathers with a bent neck and shits on the patio. She smiles over a mug of hot tea. She doesn’t notice me. There are moments when her world is no bigger than a one-legged pigeon staying out of the rain. I don’t know if that’s why she watches.
This is my pigeon’s nest, and whilst I could find no reasonable way to place it outside a window, I do find myself smiling as the contents shits on the ground below. You’re very welcome to stay for a while and get out of the rain.