Thoughts

Although created for boundless heights and breadths,
Too lazy, not bothered about flying.
Even when chased away
They waddle a few absurd paces,
Just to come back when I stop looking.
Unkempt, fat, uninspired,
Gorging on whatever litter left on the streets.
If only one of those spikes put on conservatory roofs
Could be installed inside my head!

There is also another kind.
Proud and pure.
Fed with most golden grains,
Sketching delicate patterns
Where immense sheets of the sky
Cover mountains and meadows.
Flawlessly synchronized squadron
Listening out for God’s whistle
To bring them back home.

Sometimes one of them breaks away
And lands on my window ledge.
I can marvel on a noble neck,
Coral beak and legs.
Feathers still glistening
From angels’ last finishing strokes.

Despite the mess that the obese yobs leave behind,
It is for those heavenly creatures
that I keep leaving sweet breadcrumbs.
I keep hoping
That if they stay long enough
A poem may happen.

I can’t bear to consider the more likely scenario:
Silvery white feathers stained with blood;
Gargantuan grey pathos
Cooing with a righteous satisfaction of the job well done.