Wintertime

 

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.