No 3673 Set by John Crick

We asked for an elegy to the pigeons of Trafalgar Square.

Report by Ms de Meaner

£20 to the winners. An hon mensh to Ms Daniels ("Weep for the feathered flocks in the shadow/Of death, dread leveller of bird and man./Pigeon, Prime Minister, each lives his span"). Vouchers to Mr Bellenger.

A starling is nobody's darling -

To praise such a bird would seem odd;

While the fall of a sparrow in Ealing or Harrow

Is registered only by God.

But pigeons (no rarer than widgeons)

Are more than a casual joke.

They're heritage features, traditional creatures

In the heart of the dirty Old Smoke.

Their fly-lines connect London's skylines.

They coo to the sound of Bow bells.

A populist species, they target their faeces

To land on expensive lapels.

If polished off, cruelly abolished,

They'd leave more of a hole than the Dome,

But no one can rival their knack for survival:

They'll turn up in Paris or Rome.

Basil Ransome-Davies

Fare thee well, blithe pigeon -

Rat with wings thou wert.

Scraggy-necked, oft didst thou peck

About me in the dirt.

I mourn thy pink claws scraping

And scratching at my feet

For some soiled scrap of burger bap

Or other dubious treat.

Farewell, thou hapless victim

Of our brave new regime!

Though Nelson's hat and Landseer cat

(Now guano-free) may gleam,

I mourn thy brainless cooing,

Thy flea-infested charm,

And curse again the name of Ken

Who cruelly did thee harm!

Peter Norman

Nelson needn't turn a blind eye

Now the square is full of ghost:

Where the air is left behind, I

Sound the final pigeon post.

All's deserted now there are no

Birdy brawls and brouhaha -

Gone the sparkling splash of guano.

Here there was a coo d'etat.

Whether very rich or poorest,

Weep the pigeons' final flight:

Now the camera-toting tourist

Has no white bird in his sight.

See the noble Landseer lions

Shake each unencrusted mane,

Now the poison force of science

Fed their pals some pigeon-bane.

Once in flurry, flounce and flutter

Thousands fed on gifts of bread;

But Livingstone has banged their shutter.

Pray for the glorious pigeon dead.

Will Bellenger

Daz does not wash it off. The cleaners lied

That told me soap could rid me of the stain.

It clings despite the wind and snow and rain,

It shrugs off all the Persil, Surf and Tide.

Now tourists flock and coo on every side,

And this year's birdseed washes down the drain,

But last year's dried old bird turds still remain

On my best coat, and won't come off - I've tried.

There were a thousand places where I feared

To stand, avoiding one more dirty gem.

But out there now, no winged vermin peck,

I see no mangy wing nor twitching neck,

And say: Hurray! there are no pigeons here,

But still stand coated, so remembering them.

Jill Phythian

Something in the city

In shades of grey

(A little discreet colour

Around the neck);

Never a high-flier,

Worked the trading floor,

Picking up scraps;

The occasional flutter,

But kept ahead of the game.

Redundant, no appeal,

Out neck and crop,

Dole cut to zero:

Someone else's problem.

W J Webster

They told me, feathered grey things, they told me you were fled,

They showed me drab, grey, city streets you once washed white, when fed;

I wept as I remembered how little children came

To purchase bags of pigeon food, albeit in the rain.

No fluttering over tourists, no roosts in Nelson's Square,

Columbidae, column be dead when you're no longer there.

No swooping over lions in your flighty silver mode,

The wild-life's now clay-footed squares, the trendy pigeon-toed.

Ken targeted the weakest link in London's tourist zone

To make streets paved with richer spoils than guano gave alone;

And though in protest yet we sigh - let us not mince our words:

At least he's shown true Labour thought's not strictly for the birds.

M E Ault

No 3676 Set by Stan Knafler

A soothsayer approaches the PM on the way to the opening of parliament. Of what and whom will he or she warn him? Max 200 words and in by 19 April.

E-mail: comp@newstatesman.co.uk

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