Rain which washes stone and freshens wreaths
might level older vets like sniper fire.
Umbrellas, speedily deployed, volley
voluble pigeons into balcony seats.
The sun jabs cloud like a farmer forking mire
occluded by a crust of melancholy.

Pigeons in 'the gods' have much to say:
on feathered wings and naked arms; on choirs;
on human waywardness; on pigeon folly.
Now and then, just for a laugh they play
Where's Wally?

Diane Hine

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memorial-service-curtal-sonnet/