IMPORTANT NOTE:
You do NOT have to register to read, post, listen or contribute. If you simply wish to remain fully anonymous, you can still contribute.
|
|
|
|
Thursday, 19 June 2003 |
|
At HMP Elmley, my cell overlooks the exercise yard, a concrete square boundaried by a wire fence with metal gates. A week ago I was throwing uneaten bread scraps out of the window for the birds. There are dozens of birds at Elmley. The infuriating and nasty seagulls make the most appalling din at all hours, shrieking and screaming in the most unpleasant way, wheeling and grabbing crusts like harpies or scorned wives. The little sparrows and blackbirds are more polite and peck away for grains. The ducks are delightful, especially the babies. The prettiest is an oyster catcher - a large black and white bird, like a magpie, but with a long orange beak that it digs deep into the earth in the grassy lawn outside the yard. There's a huge male pheasant, brilliantly coloured in red and green. And, of course, there are the pigeons. It was one of these pigeons that caught my eye. Clearly injured, it looks as though its legs were broken. It used its wings like arms to drag its body towards the bread, constantly reaching the morsels too late as a seagull swooped and snatched it away. I felt sorry for it and aimed bread directly in front of it, which it managed to eat with delight. It seemed fit and well apart from being crippled and clearly unable to fly. As the bread ran out, the birds disappeared, leaving Tiny Tim stranded in the yard. I felt sorry for it. Predators would get it, if it didn't die from lack of water. My next door neighbour Harry, was watching it too. "It's goner" he said, sadly, in his Geordie accent. When we came back from getting an evening meal, it had gone. We assumed that either an officer had kindly wrung its neck to put it out of its misery, or a fox or hawk had taken it. But no. Next evening it was there again, struggling across the concrete, happily snapping up bread we aimed at its head. Harry and I determined to watch it but, in a few seconds when we were both turned away, it disappeared again. The next night it returned again. So, the following day, I questioned the red band inmate whose duty it is to clean the yard and tend the gardens. "Oh, yes", he said, "that's the pigeon that fell out of its nest a couple of months ago, breaking both legs." It appears that the bird had survived, living in the long grass, dragging itself under the gates into the yard every day, keeping up its strength on bread thrown by prisoners, drinking the dew and the water sprayed on the lawn. Indeed, it's now walking - or, rather, staggering. It's feathers have grown. It's wings are strong (so they should be, after all that hobbling). Mr friend the red band thinks it's only a few days away from flying normally. There's a lesson here somewhere. Determination wins in the end. Don't give up just because your legs are broken and observers assume you've had it. My little pigeon will fly away soon, just like una paloma blanca (a white dove) and I hope it will be able to remember the words of song it may have heard through my window as it enjoyed my chunks of bread. "NO-ONE CAN TAKE MY FREEDOM AWAY". JK.
|
|
|
|
