My father loved telling us:
“Our name means ‘little bird’ in Gaelic,
and we live in Prehen, the Irish for ‘rook’s nest.”
I wonder if Seamus knew.
If I’d ever met him, it would’ve been
the first thing I’d have said.
Maybe that’s why I notice it –
a single bloodied feather on the concrete,
a trail of bright crimson droplets
that leads to a pigeon cowering under a pipe,
feathers fluffed in fear, its black button eyeing
me from its hiding place. I step forward slowly.
It tries to take flight but lacks the strength,
the flap of its wings a violent squall
as it spatters the walls with blood.
My pen is useless here —
I call someone else for help,
a kind man who comes and takes it away.
The puppy licks up most of the gore –
only a crimson streak on the doorframe remains.
Originally from Derry, Northern Ireland, Nicola Heaney is a writer and poet living in Bristol who spent over a decade teaching English Literature in England and Madrid, Spain. Her poems have been published in The North magazine and she has just completed an MA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. www.nicolaheaney.com
More work by Nicola Heaney
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