Just a Smidgen
In our may tree dwells a pigeon.
With September drawing near.
Is he stupid? Just a smidgen.
He thinks breeding time is here.
Mrs Pigeon still romances
For two more late squabs to grow;
Perches, hopeful, in the branches.
One more silly so and so.
He brings twigs in, much too bulky.
As he lands, they ping away.
Mrs Pigeon’s getting sulky.
Window’s slipping day by day.
Will they make it? Who would gamble
On what Nature might perform.
Time for one last brief preamble.
Plant the seed and set the corm.
©Ruth Twyman Lockyer August 2013