Sunday, 4 September 2011

The Sunday Post



WILD OATS.

 Everyday I see from my window
pigeons, up on a roof ledge – the males
are wobbling gyroscopes of lust.

Last week a stranger joined them, snowwhite
pouting fantail,
Mae West in the Women's Guild.
What becks, what croo – croos, what
demented pirouetting, what a lack
of moustaches to stroke

The females – no need to be one of them
to know
exactly what they were thinking – pretended
she wasn't there
and went dowdily on with whatever
pigeons do when they're knitting.

Norman MacCaig
February 1968

2 comments:

Rebecca S. said...

Hee hee. Delightful.

TwistedScottishBastard said...

Sorry to say, that pigeons ar just flying rats.
I used to blast at least 4 a week when I lived in Fife.

You wouldn't believe the amount of vermin these things have on them.

Nice poem though.

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