Pigeons

On the Travelodge roof 14 pigeons 

Bask in the gutters 

Queuing for the morning 

Close together, cooing 

Fluffing feathers gritted with mites

I take a minute to watch them

The sun warms my forehead

A golden morning flowing 

From the roof with 

Healing warmth

A minute becomes two 

I stand in the square below

Faces made of cloth and eyes 

Hurry on without looking up 

As my gaze rises over hoods and visors

The navy sky above forgotten 

Yellow rays blaze to shine 

On those 14 pigeons

For two minutes the world is good