Wings


Walking the moor,
Towards the cows and minster,
I pass a headless pigeon,
Clouded by flies,
A man's grey shirt,
Tangled and muddy,
And find a scrap of paper.
A corner of a book.
"More tadpoles," it sighs.
"Eventually they died
And sank down
And joined the compost
At the base of the leaves."
Nothing more.

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