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Contact
We walk together through massed pigeons.
They, quiet, and with little hope it seems,
pecking at damp pavings, move as we
move, their grey backs shifting like dreams.
Like dreams, linked in sympathy to our
actions yet not in contact with them;
as our arms, linked, move limp together,
no comfort or contact in them.
The pigeons are silent almost, their
silence mocking ours. Their contact,
beak and beak, is damply real,
and ours, feather touched,
is compensation for its lack.
Somerset 1997
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