The Wood Pigeons

Tucked into bed beneath England sheets.
The walls tremor, I part curtains silently.

Shrieks from the sky, darkness light,
but severed they stare from spearhead branches

as morning orange bursts to blue,
swinging one stilt like a lightsaber

in the garden dew—I spy a rough-cut,
and hold the log fixed as if a third arm

for minutes alone. Yet they remain still,
hooked stubborn in the black wire.

Matthew Robinson

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