Duncannon, a stranger called.
We were happily pottering in our little
seaside garden. It was a fine Spring day.
Plants were placed, watering almost done,
proof against the drought,
when quite suddenly he was there.
He was not expected. My wife was
the one who noticed him. She asked,
“what do you make of that?”
At first I did not know what it was
she meant, but looking up from
my work I too saw him close at hand.
He was silent, it seemed he spoke
in ways we could not comprehend.
We were quiet then, as he was.
The only sounds heard were the hushed
murmurs of the little waves gently falling
on Duncannon’s nearby strand.
“We should offer him food,”she said,
then added, “and something
to drink, perhaps he’s thirsty.”
Food and water we placed before him
Keeping a wary eye on us he drank
with evident relish. Still silence held,
no-one saying anything. We
watched him as he watched us.
He wore some form of I.D. bracelet, but the
writing was too small, to us almost invisible.
When the water was gone the pigeon
flew away, our little visitor who seemed
to know that we would offer water to
a stranger, even in a drought.
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