Woodpigeons, winter

Grey birds lunge their heads in a field of frost:
beads of black eye thrusting about in the white,

They stud the ground and strut, blue puff,
where it's relative to them and they aren't lost -

Nobody, I guess, could have predicted how in curious
times sight is overcast, near enough unpredictable

Without a rhythm or ordinary signal, so near
to ourselves, blacker still and seeking or furious.

At this dense depth every object interrupts,
even in the bright afternoon unfastened and clear -

But these birds have a constant flow, no fear of ice
or of blind snow and they'll oscillate until they go.


Simon Peter Everett, 2009 ©