PEASEDOWN PIGEONS

The lean-to was built for them years ago-
Carpentered by him with the quiet care
Of a proper woodworker; the sun's glow
Opens even its seasoned grain to air,
The sweet reek of old peeled paint from planking
Glossing peacefully those of crowded greens
In clay. His birds stir now behind ranking
Panels; they live to know what freedom means.
In shirtsleeves, he lives now to set them free;
Cradles warm bodies one by one, sharp beak
And feet and soft-fledged muscularity,
And looses them in turn, every dear, meek
Soul, into the morning glare; free today,
Watches them flutter for the great high-way.

We dig, crawling in a split, man-sized seam -
Shirtless, sweat working wet tracks in dreary
Lamp-lit grime, and breath is closed-in steam
As we pull against waist-chain, toil bleary,
Pick thudding, dragging back short-armed at coal
To heave it, twisting behind us. To sneak
Fresh air, some drink, no hurt, is the true goal -
Two bright days like liberty crown our week.
Race-meetings are sober: from the basket
Released into the jostling clouds of wings,
Rain or shine, blue heavens or grey-toned wet,
The birds level, while we feel at partings
Their land-broad skies as space - and as they win
Height, our souls meet them as when they come in.