Sky High

We pass pigeons every day without a second thought — small grey silhouettes tracing quiet arcs above us. And the sky, too, becomes something we stop seeing, even though it’s always there, patient and unbought. Yet in a single moment, when wings cut across the clouds, we’re reminded that these ordinary companions are never truly ordinary. They’re right in front of our eyes, offering a shy kind of wonder we forget to claim.

Sky High

The pigeons flew by
no one said hi

The people openly cry
and still ask why

I
quietly sigh —
life is their lie.

The patient sky
remains our allay

Not something to buy,
but a shy high
that never dies

After a day spent watching pigeons cross an open sky and shaping this poem, and following an exciting evening on the radio airwaves, I happened upon this performance before turning in for the night. It seemed a perfect fit. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Ivor Steven ©  October 2026