A wood pigeon is doing a solo
performance in the bird table
its head nodding to the beat of its beak
pecking like a maestro on the keys of a piano
up one scale and down the other
while robin sits hopeful in the wings
and blue tit sways to the rhythm
of a wind strummed branch
and Mama pigeon on the table roof
sways and orchestrates the pit
and despite the allure of such temptation
the cat has taken, permanently it seems,
to the chair beside the stove
preferring the hiss, spit and roar
of fire and air complying
and the kettle whistling on the range
signalling another pot of tea.
