Pigeons On A Flat Roof Poem by Emlyn Wentwhistle

Six thirty a.m.
and a holiday!
I throw aside the tangled sheets,
too early woken
by the sound of pigeons jousting on my roof.
Half waking I'd imagined these
the footfalls of demented men
chasing their own forlorn shadows.

At noon I'm in the garden wrestling weeds.
Two pigeons sit atop a ridge
between the gutter and the chimney stack
inviting stones.
The damage I might do
colaterally
stays my hand.

At night I'm hunting frantically
for paperwork I've long mislaid.
The pigeons whir and coo up on the roof
the way, I guess, all pigeons do.

Sometimes it has the ring of laughter.