All night the metro pigeons cried under the eaves.
They never seemed to sleep.

I only realised in the morning it was them,
not someone crying for help all night,
somewhere near my room.

Yes, all night.
My mind saw a woman kicked and pulled by the hair.
Her groans slipped into my reverie.
Reverie? Or memories from childhood.

I opened the narrow window first thing
leaning out, looking for her dead body,
a pressed flower on the pavement below,
to see if she made good her escape.

Morning sky looked only promising.
It had driven away the blight of the night.
I watched the commuters at their smart pace
from my attic room, near the eaves, nearer the sky.

No more groans, but cooing.
Pigeon’s plumage happily swells with serendipity
for whatever it is.

They strut everywhere,
everywhere in London.