They call me Squab,
the live tithe of clipped snow feather,
who brought life back to Noah,
and now roosts among the watching eaves,
as the slow, tired arrival of grain wains rattle,
carrying corn and wheat, bramley and wine,
to fortify Winter learning and Christmas prayer,
until the last tenth of these Summer acred fruits,
is achingly stacked, secured, harvested.
​
Thunder for thirty miles, Michaelmas dust is stirred,
a riot of muscles gather to secure a frostless keep,
badged in butterfly knots, cow tassle and nosegays,
jostling, squabbling, pushing for hire positions,
their wings clipped by chance of birth,
weary wanderers with the scorched thought,
that whether Squabbling or Hireling,
flesh or muscle, quill or bone,
we are all to be consumed.
Mal Dewhirst
Location: By the Tithebarn / Dovecote