In a litter of feathers like confetti spread on the road
the pigeon sits, missing its head.
From a distance it looked as if it was a clean cut,
but on closer inspection a broken cord
looks as if it’s been pulled from the stump of its neck.
There’s no sign of a cat about and the hedgerows are totally still;
little black insects attend on the carcass
left up for weathering.
I hadn’t heard any cooing, or any bird-noise at all,
from outside my bedroom windowacross the road.
It’s not like at home,
where little owls cry out from their spots in trees in the dark
and you can hear them as you’re getting to sleep at night,
where dad would’ve cleared up a bird’s carcass from the garden
so my sister wouldn’t have to see it;
you only hear the occasional hum as the skyscraper lights of planes
glide over the terraced rooftops, to and from Heathrow.
You don’t often see roadkill here either; it’s probably swept up.
Pulling myself away, I go back to my front door
and upstairs, where I could see the pigeon from my window,
and try to avoid peeking out to see if anything’s happened to it
For the rest of the day.