Poetry

Every dusk the pigeon’s cooing comesOver and over, self-pityinglyFrom the spreadingWhere on a hill the witch-hatted chateauStands grey, closed and shutteredIn its long shadow the ancient churchWhere the Wednesday MassHas an attendance of five, priest includedAnd by day nothing movesIn the cobbled streetsExcept the bowed legs of old womenBearing bread.At sunset, gangs of cats emerge from doorwaysAnd crouch, watchful, mistrusting, staring upWhere the fading sky is cross-hatched with swallowsWho, fork-tailed, swoop & dartStaccato song-lines bouncing from tiled roofsFlying at the speed of soundBefore shooting skyward once moreThen plunging into the plane treeWhere the pigeon still coos its pitiful refrainLike the robed, rejected priestWho greets me in the village squareAnd entreats me, in pigeon English.