A poem for the hell of it

A poem for the hell of it
         with nothing to say
no agenda no axe to grind
         just shooting the breeze
with a few words
         loitering without intent
counting the days till Easter
         five pigeons sitting in a tree
five fat plumed pods of cotton
         parrots out of their context
in the livery of accident
         and emergency dart across
my air space

As the dawn chorus strikes up
         I think after all these years
I’m beginning to recognise
         the tunes they sing
cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo
         there’s a message in there
somewhere but I refuse
         to strain my imagination
yesterday was better
         than the day before
and today will be better still
         and so it goes

I have no complaints :
         could she be more loving
could she be more fun
         could she be more tender
more full of the joys of spring ?
         I don’t think so

Simplicity sits on a stool
         and sighs « this is the life »
I’ve no complaints
         period

John Lyons