Trafalgar Square Poem by Matthew Lumley

Like a child reaching out to touch the sun,
I stood in Trafalgar Square
Back when it was filled with doves,
Simple and clear and white,
Though only pigeons are there now.

I stood and reached around in all directions,
I felt myself a Vitruvian Man,
A man inside a bubble,
But whose fingers scraped the edge,
As doves flitted in and out of my peripheral vision.
And then, at last, I managed to fasten my hands on one of them
And to hold it firmly, just to give it a closer look.
But as I took the bird apart
I saw quickly that I should have sat and let it fly.

Crimson blood,
Greenish liver,
Yellow pus,
Blue veins feeding violet eyes!

White feathers, what rainbows did you hide from me?
“What places have we not seen
And what depths gape at our backs? ”
This I called out to all who would listen, before–
Ah, but wait,
Was I wrong, little dove, was I wrong?
For your bones, your bones are white as chalk

And though I strained to stretch my mind
Inside and outside that bird,
I have solved no great mysteries,
Nor punctured any spheres.
There was no rush of air,
No realities or truths crashed in to fill the void.
And now my hands are stained
With infinite shades of colour
That I cannot help but smear on every dove I handle,
Greying their feathers,
Dulling their wings,
Until all I see now in Trafalgar Square
Are pigeons clouding up the sky,
And a thousand Vitruvian men
Reaching out to grip the earth with dirty hands.