The Dove Of Feathermore

A male dove was born at Feathermore
(The land of winged folks, all whom could fly.)
At childhood, tutors taught him Skylore
(The ways of all the aves of the sky.)
One day, it left the realms of its town
And found himself in Dale Featherstone,
Where birds who try to fly but fall down
Had long ago made home with their own.

The flying bird was flabbergasted
And hastened back to his mother`s nest
To unveil the surprise his eyes tasted;
He did expect wonder from the rest.
‘Those winged maggots,’ his grandmother said;
‘Their kinds should set with the nearest sun.
They're not nice sights, their foul days should fade.
Don't talk to them, they're evil, my son.’


Clad in these words, the dove went to play;
But coincidence made his mum aware
Of the armed seed that was sowed that day,
So she said what was both right and rare:
‘My mother made mistakes in her days
With some others; it brought wars and hate.
Buy none of these bad things that she says;
Go to that Dale and get a playmate.’