LOST BIRD

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.