I wish I was a ruined watch tower
on a back county road
so that on rainy nights
the damp
& dirty pigeons
could sleep on one leg
under my railings.

The damp drunken smell of filth & feather
the sound of their weeze & rasp
the wet clay, wet cob, mouldering adobe –

it brings to mind
an older era –
a lost way to make a living.

& So the horses of our minds
run off to towns of nostalgia.

But I do wish I was a ruined watch tower
on a back county road
so that on rainy nights
the damp
& dirty pigeons
could sleep on one leg
under my railings

& there
by it’s base

2 watchmen burn fire
telling tales & adventures
to one another