A fine morning and the side-streets empty <br />then turning the corner, <br />in the middle of the road <br />a pigeon - grey-mauve, plump and feather-perfect, <br />one wing half-spread in flight, <br />sprawled sideways, <br />dead <br /> <br />and at that moment the sun shone <br />cruelly <br />on the blood that shone on the dusty road by its head, <br />a jewel, redder than any red, <br />that shone like a message <br />as if it were the blood of the world itself <br />so rich, so rich... <br /> <br />and I felt guilty <br />that I saw it so beautiful, <br />that jewel from the heart of a dead dove <br />of peace, <br />and thought I should suppress the thought... <br />and, now, that further thought which hovered in its train <br />that this whole world in such a jewel of blood, <br />more precious than a ruby, or than gold, or much fine gold, <br />a jewel beyond price <br />is what a devotee at communion or at Mass... <br /> <br />while cool reason <br />(what has reason to do with this?) <br />countered <br />well you value your own blood above most things <br />don't you? Why not a pigeon's? <br /> <br />but all words spent and poets silent and associations dropped <br />and thoughts at rest, <br />that pool of blood <br />in the winter sunlight that shone on the dusty street <br />was just so beautiful.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0046-jewel-of-blood/
