He nursed the little pigeon and gave it all his care,
Spending as much time with it as he could possibly spare,
Thomas dressed its scabby wounds and made sure it was fed,
He stroked its downy feathers and patted it’s grey head.

He kept it in the garden and stayed by it dawn till night,
We couldn’t take the only thing that made his heart so light,
It kept his small hands busy as he struggled through the pain,
And happiness seemed to disguise death’s quickly spreading stain.

But I looked out on the garden on a misty, sleepy dawn,
And pigeon seemed to lie too quiet on the dewy lawn,
I checked his little heartbeat but his feathery chest was still,
And it seemed the bird had journeyed over the last, painful hill.

I wanted to keep it from Tom but knew that I could not,
That little scabby bird had meant to him a lot,
So I went inside and sat down upon his cosy bed,
And he stirred beside me as I swallowed deeply and said:

PRNS