Dead Birds. Poem by Steve Caine

Dead Birds

The Black and White of tabloid press hid him like a tent,
Milk and Bread the obstacles to someone two feet ten,
He sat there staring at his tea, the question in his head,
Dad, where do all the dead birds go?
He very quietly said.

His father sat there gripped in fear for the question he had asked,
No answer seemed to find him as the seconds slowly passed,
Clapping at the morning paper, milk spilled on one side,
He looked down at innocent eyes with the dread he tried to hide.

The answer came through coughs of sorts,
As his father raised his head,
Why would you want to know the fate of birds already dead?

I would guess they maybe emigrate, or fall into the sea,
or taken away by hungry Cats, and hidden in the trees,
Float off up to heaven and buried in the sky,
Although I've seen some in the Supermarkets,
But those ones cannot fly!

Lunch box in his hand, heading for the door,
The boy turned broadside and this is what he said,
Dad, I think they're in the pillow cases sitting on my bed.