Above me, on the slates, pigeons are cooing –

and some already billing, though winter

has many weeks to run. Like a shadow play,

sunlight silhouettes them on the wall

the study window faces. From the desk,

I have looked up, over three decades,

to tease, from bricks, reluctant words of love.

Before the allotments were sold off,

by the railway, there were pigeon lofts.

At dawn, out of a livid sky, birds

would home with only guessed at effort, like

the best of words: would touch down in the

empty, wooden rooms, now beating

with feathers, now cooing.