The Bird That Never Was

The bird that never was, cocooned in a once warm world,

Nestled in the soft cut grass, like a ping pong ball just lost.

Only feet from the privet hedge, its mum and dad called home,

Arms length for a human, a universe for those yet born.

The tools the pigeon has, that make its life so full,

The beak, claws and wings, no good to push or pull.

So the little world is stuck, a meal for an empty plate,

A rat, a cat or carrion crow, or a human to seal its fate.

The latter comes to the rescue - no galloping horse, but they get through!

Three of them, with a plan of attack - a trowel, a plot, no need for a map.

They set to work, one, two, three, a hole, an egg and a gravestone be.

A few words said, a pause and a smile, enough of a story to make verse for a while.