Six dead pigeons are wrenched from my chimney,
Still-feathered carcasses dreaming of flight.
Sticks of bone, beak and claw, they eyeball me,
Till the chimney sweep takes the sack outside.

“Your husband’ll want to see them,” he says,
Then leaves the bag open to curious eyes,
Sure passers-by will suffer no distress
When they see its mouth, gaping in surprise.

But my husband hates all corpses, as do I:
Rum, city folk, we never count our dead –
Shut eyes instead, as bells begin to chime;
Come indoors, to shudder in sightless beds.

And so it is that we are now marooned, within this “rural idyll”, holding fast
Sands that run for us and leave us dry, surrounded by cadavers from our past.

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