POEM
TO A DEAD PIGEON
Grey
and white feathered bird
You
lie there dead
for
all to see
in
the sunlit morning
Most
people pass you by
for
you are a dead bird
grey
and white
your
feathers in the sun
The
Negroes pass
The
West Indians
The
poor Irish going to Portobello Market
The
green stocking girl
who
sells her wares on the corner
bananas
and dates and oranges
they
are selling in the market
I
bend down
on
my knees
in
the sunlit morning
and
kiss your wing
grey
and white
gleaming
in the sun
No
more
shall
you aspire
air
and cloud and sky
No
more
The
noises of the rabble
to
wet your thirst
No
more
on
this earth
poor
bird
shall
the light
blind
you to darkness
No
more
poor
bird
No
more
October 20, 1964
London, England