I’m slightly worried about my local pigeons.
I don’t expect to get much sympathy.
They’re usually fed by a motley assortment of old men.
The men used to coalesce, as if by magic, around the Town Quay, bringing sliced bread and bird food.
They’re probably sheltering indoors. The men, that is.
The snack cabin is closed, so there’s no cup of tea for them, even if they did come out. The men, that is.
I’m still here for them. The pigeons, that is.
They are my photographic models and I pay them in birdseed. The pigeons, that is.