Has there ever been a sadder sight to see, in the eyes of either you or me, of the lady in her seventies?
Purple cardigan, back hump with age. An agely age, that we can gaige.
She carries just a bag in hand and, it's not a pricey one at that. And no, she doesn't own a cat.
Plastic bag, just filled with bread, she'll feed the birds until she's dead. I hear she is a widower, calm and mild. No job, no mortgage and no child.
So here she whiles the day away, throwing crumbs to feathered rats whilst being told she can't do that, by just about anyone walking past her and they quote, how the council frowns on feeding birds, absurd fines if they catch you.
But never have I seen her daunted yet and I think that I start to get, at least an idea of what she's doing when the flock are ripe for viewing.
With the bag of crumbs depleted, seated pigeon feeder watches.
A large morass sways through the sky of ravens, pigeons and magpies. And I never once even meet her eye, but I can tell just why she does it.
Sit, just once and watch the lady. She summons birds and lets them go, they create a swirling shape just so, that you would watch them fly to and fro.
She created that, you know.
A sadder sight we'll never see, than the lady in her seventies, who spreads the bread around the streets and you don't need a Poe or Keats to tell you that it makes her happy.
Happy, 'cuz I think, her pigeons are family.
See her tomorrow, just for the fun. She'll be the one carrying a loaf or some buns.
