My neighbour’s yard is full of pigeon shit
excreted by the thirty birds he keeps
in two small crees. I wouldn’t mind a bit
if rather than ‘purrup’ they sang with cheeps
or chirrups, flutey tunes, not burbly purrs
which get right on my tits (excuse my French).
But cripes! I hate ’em! Still, the thought occurs
that peacocks would be worse. They call ‘kawench’
or some such sound that sets my teeth on edge
and makes me want to wring their scrawny necks.
Right. Here’s the deal. If Fred’s birds have to fledge,
okay, but if they crap upon my kecks
or other stuff that I’ve hung out to dry
the feathered faecal droppers have to die.

Catherine Edmunds was educated at Dartington College of Arts, and Goldsmith’s College, London. Her published works include a poetry collection, four novels and a Holocaust memoir. Catherine has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her writing has appeared in the Frogmore Papers, The Binnacle, Butchers’ Dog, and other literary journals.

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