Anti-Pigeon Spikes

I find you nested in a support buttress at Paddington station, folded into a small gap, where no one has yet reached to lay with spikes.

There’s violet in your plumage, but covered over, covert, with slate grey, as if to armour that dove’s livery with your austere, urbane uniform.

I can’t imagine you chose this home. Edifice of industry. This steel and glass clad fortress you besiege with coos. But pests are not born, they’re made.

Once common household pets, winds change and new panics are whipped up, or else old reliable ones are dusted off, to drive out and abandon.

Grey speckled émigré, I can’t help but love you. You live undaunted in this, a world with so little room for you, they lay spikes for you out there.

I envy you your feathers, your weightless duality. I learned to love the austere, dress cast iron and old brickwork, but lack your green patina.

I long to call to you, hands out, lower your body into my coat pocket smuggle you with me onto the train but where would I take you?

They lay spikes out there for us.