Pigeon Call

Through the throat and soft, white bib of a grey pigeon,
Came the quiet call of, 'Bibi! Bibi!',
You thought your grandmother calling.
Up above, in the azure umbrella tree,
Looking up to the sky; a blue escapee,
From laughing girls, playground spies and creepy sighs,
You heard only your grandmother calling,
Cuckoo-voiced,
The soft throated pipping of a gentle bird.
A kind cry amongst the tree knots, kingfisher flashes,
And golden light.
Sometimes the future holds back,
And we get to spend another day in childhood,
Where we can believe the voices are always gentle, calling.
Until the voice of grown-ups shouts: "Believe the shrill cry of hawks,
The vile swoop and coming home of truths,
The final green of life."