The Pigeon Queen

Somewhere amoungst the red brick, in a dim alley, beneath the bustle of the everyday human traffic, there is a whimsical myth. Somewhere near Trafalga square, (the pigeon's capital) opposite the British Museum. Somewhere in a corner or a crevice where no one ever treads, or the tale-end of no where, there is a sourceress. Her name is Pigeon, and she is the Pigeon Queen. She is quite insane. She lurks in between the hustle and the bustle, underneath the smog and the grime and the footsteps. She watches. for she is always watching, and waiting. Then, on the coldest night on the year, she emerges. The Pigeon Queen steps out onto the square, pigeon-feather cloak billowing in the late-november wind. The night is dark tinted, like painted glass. The moon is round and watchful and bathes the city in its silver sea. The Pigeon Queen climbs. She climbs over the stone lions, she scales Nelson's collom. She climbs, climbs climbs. Until, finally, she reaches the very pinaccle. The point. Where even the pigeon minions themselves fear to fly. She raises her hands to the night and she cries; 'My minions! Hear me!' Into the dark and the whistling wind. 'Flock to me, my minions!' And they obey her. On that one night of the year, they gather in their great hoards. Every pigeon in London swoops and soars and lands and bows beneath her glory. Every single one. And the square is a carpet of grey in the moonlight, flittering, chittering, sky alive with their callings. On this one night of the year, they assemble. A swarm. A black cloud, blocking the moon itself. A great mass of feathers and wings. Power and glory and hooked claw! Then, slowly, they depart. Each one flies away once again and the night is over for another year. Back to their lofts and their nests and their filthy playgrounds. Back to their gutters and their rooftops and the mysterious places that pigeons know alone. And the Pigeon Queen goes back to her alley, and begs for ten pence pieces. Just another begger outside the fish and chip shop.