street dove

You see me,
immaculate ash-grey plumage,
twin black wing bars,
white rump patch.
 
Everybody says they’ve Scottish
ancestors don’t they? Lived
and some of us still do in caves,
swoop through crash of spray,
shy. You’ll not believe us.
 
Me grandad carried dispatches
in wartime amid bombs and bullets,
his guano were used for gunpowder.
Explosive, he were. Now they cull
 
us for our white graffiti
on posh high rises. Say
we spread disease, too many
of us. Say we bully songbirds.
“Rats with wings!”
 
Can you spare a crumb?
Small morsel and I’ll help
your soul to Heaven.

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