Wild Oats

I was sitting eating my breakfast looking out onto the garden this morning, as is my habit, and was enjoying the glorious golden hour, with the sun covering the trees in the neighbouring copse with the most beautiful glow.

I was idly watching a couple of pigeons on one of the golden branches, when I suddenly realised that there appeared to be some amorous goings on up there, which brought to mind a poem that I came across in a poetry group to which I belonged. I often think of it and smile ... and, if you haven't come across this poem before, I hope you will smile too!

Wild Oats

Every day I see from my window
pigeons, up on a roof ledge – the males
are wobbling gyroscopes of lust.

Last week a stranger joined them, a snowwhite
pouting fantail,
Mae West in the Women’s Guild.

What becks, what croo-croos, what
demented pirouetting, what a lack
of moustaches to stroke.

The females – no need to be one of them
to know
exactly what they were thinking – pretended
she wasn’t there
and went dowdily on with whatever
pigeons do when they’re knitting.


Norman MacCaig