pigeons, up on a roof ledge – the males
Everyday I see from my window
are wobbling gyroscopes of lust.
Last week a stranger joined them, snowwhite
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 themto know
exactly what they were thinking – pretended
she wasn't there
and went dowdily on with whatever
pigeons do when they're knitting.
Norman MacCaigFebruary 1968