|Pidgie Pigeon, RIP|
Regular readers to this blog will know that for the past five years a pair of wood pigeons has been visiting the garden several times a day, and I've been throwing down seed for them.
The male, a very plump and gregarious bird, would run towards me as fast as his little legs would carry him. I named him "Pidgie." Well, I haven't seen Pidgie for more than a week now. So I'm assuming that he has Passed.
Meanwhile his mate, Leg, is spending more time in the garden and has a winsome new habit of perching on the garden gate so that she can fix a beady eye on me when I come down for breakfast.
Leg was named thus because she limps.
An intruder pigeon has started hanging around, and Leg is defending her patch. J maintains this is probably a new male moving in on Pidgie's turf. Or on Pidgie's bird, in fact.
I wonder if Leg knows that Pidgie is dead, or, as in the case of swans, has to see the body to acknowledge it.
I draw your attention to this wonderful, heart breaking poem by Gillian Clarke.
She was brave in the bitter river,
the Mary Rose, doomed,
ice-chalice, lily in bloom.
Thaw, her feathers and bones dissolve in the flow
and she's gone, flower that floated
so light under death's undertow.
In lengthening light he patrols alone
ferocious on his watery shore
where the nest from last year and the year before
has drowned to a dredge of sticks and sludge.
In full sail, his body ablaze, bridge
over unfenced water, he waits for her.
The voice on the phone said,
"He doesn't know she's dead.
There is nothing to be done."
Now love rides the river
like a king's ship, all wake and quiver,
and I can't tell him, it's over.