Tuesday, August 11, 2015


As birds will, this one
Had flown into the wrong poem
Where it fluttered about
Disturbing the grammar.
The Duke of Wellington,
Asked about the pigeons
Nesting  in St. Paul’s rafters
And twittering at vespers,
Suggested bringing in hawks
But my muse dislikes blood.
Brushing me aside,
She whistled and the bird
Came to her hand and sat
Seeming content to wait
For me to hire some trees,
Breed up a few birds
And rent a moon
Just two days past full.

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