Under the pigeon loft of Victoria Avenue bridge,
where the dark river flows with its take:
diamond flakes of black, unguent, tessellated,
before boat-houses, break from house-boats.
Sheltering from rain spit, we stand with a pen
a reach away. She the first-comer.
That huge dark curvature (insulated from the wheels above -
ever accelerating, decelerating, and the exhaust spilling out)
hearing only the river glide and slap; and the
pigeons broo-brooing and beating in and off...
She looks at us and dips her head not quite to water.
I talk to her. But she decides to fluff out, a boat space,
signet thinking, as her mate approaches with his wings
bowed too, wondering why she stays beneath the bridge.
He saunters up quite slow. His male agenda
to aggress a little, even beating his wings;
yet ever proportionate, he tells her, "Let's go, now."
And she answers, "Quite so, my love. In a minute. Easy all."
She's fallen in love with me. It is obvious no bread
will be forthcoming, yet her little brain ,
when you think of all that muscle and power-fly,
likes my quietings.
And why Urshie and I are still, here, after the boys have fled
to a nearby, wet playground - mystery.
Or simply this is her favourite place. She likes the pigeon broo,
I do not know. We stay, we three. Urshie, Pen and me,
Urshie, Pen and I, until the sky clears.
I want to live in Cambridge again. Riches.
She paddles after her long-suffering mate,
waving her neck and her tail in goodbye.
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poesia"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
