Meditation

Pigeons have come to nest again. Untidily,
as they usually do. Peacefully here
on the stoep, in the latticework of a vine,
amongst leaves making themselves at home. Briefly.

They sleep now in pairs, as they should. Serenely.
Listen to the whole neighbourhood considering their fate,
our modest neighbours who can sleep safely tonight;
perhaps for the whole season, only just protected,

lightly held in half a calabash of sticks and grass.
(Who still remembers the four who were here last year?)

Here they sleep now, the soft blue-feathered ones,
able to drink all night from the wholesome Milky Way
in motionless dreams of their progeny unscathed,
whilst the Southern Cross unwaveringly plummets.