Mattie Goes to the Pigeons

When all the day had fallen down and
the moon was in position, pale and proud,
he left the house, heavy coat and cap in place,
he left his self in the still warm bed and went out
to sleep with the pigeons.

Inside their shed that was hung with dust
and webs, the pigeons roosted in a row,
eyes closed, heads tucked to heated breasts.
They didn’t seem to mind an old man
sitting in the midst of them. When he

stayed, disturbing the air, his shoulders
too big for the coop, the pigeons on either side
moved in closer to him, took him into their
feathered breathing until they dreamed
of chrysanthemums blooming pink

at the top of the allotment. Dreamed of
plump juicy marrows peeping out
from under big floppy leaves. Tall
leeks standing in rows like soldiers,
feet planted deep in the soil, ready.

The reality, days run into one, bumping
and rolling into and over the next since
he lost the reason for sleep; the ache
in his muscles, the fear in his belly.
Now a different fear grips him, a kind with no sky.