Pigeon

A slate coat against grey time:
church spine,
littered with dumpy torsos
sat in line
to taste the morning
with the curtsy of tails,
agreements nodded out
like semaphores.

Sally stumbles
into the kitchen, still half-asleep.
They nod their own semaphore –
she knows he’s been at it again,
the next day was a goodbye note –
she couldn’t help her slight smile.

Plump plumes on brittle sticks
jostle for a view. There is emerald
in the slate –
a tiptoe hop sends them soaring:
Awkwardness razed.

R. M. Francis is a poet from the Black Country, researching his PhD at the University of Wolverhampton. His chapbook, Transitions, was published by The Black Light Engine Room in 2015. Two further pamphlets, Orpheus (Lapwing Publications) and Transform (A Swift Exit Press) are due out soon. Find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RMFrancisPoet.

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