I saw a ginger pigeon yesterday.
Shining bronze and copper among all his concrete brothers.
He was looking fine; healthy, smooth feathers and bright eyes, a stark contract to his bedraggled, grey, knobble-footed brothers.
I wondered if he gets teased by all of the other pigeons?
‘Oi, ginger wings.’
A pigeon only a mother could love?
No. He was too plump and prosperous. I think he is some kind of pigeon king, who gets to sit on Nelson’s tricorne hat – the premier pigeon spot in the city.
I’m not the only one it seems to have spotted my auburn plumed friend