The pigeons around
The Old Court House
Know nothing of
Issues at stake.
No money nor marriage
Nor murder
Disturbs all the cooing
They make.

The pigeons beside
City Council
Know not if the
Tax rate is high.
Nor whether last winter’s
White deluge
Had pushed traffic
Costs to the sky.

The pigeons who
Perch on the steeple
Will flit at the
Sound of the bell.
A simple way,
Theirs, to co-habit.
With nary a
Sermon on Hell.

The pigeons at
Cenotaph Corner
Will rest on the
Soldier’s bronze gun.
With no sense of
War’s devastation,
Or what was the cause
Or who won.

But down at the
Park’s peanut corner,
A woman comes
Daily at four,
With treats for her
Fine feathered neighbours,
Who gather around
By the score.


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