The Killing

The killing A flock of white doves flew over my house, heading due east, if they were flying to Israel fat chance, and if they landed on the Gaza strip they would end up in a pot. Last time I saw a white dove was in 1956, when I accidently killed one, I had made a bow and arrow and shot into the air and hit one. Our neighbour came, pulled the arrow out of quivering bird and gave it to me, but kept the dove. The aroma of roasted bird wafted along the street. We sat eating fried mackerel with turnips, “why didn’t you take the bird home? ” My mother asked. “But it was white and it might have been an angel” I said.“? Never mind the colour, we are talking about food, ” she said. My sister went even further insisted it was Jesus in disguise, and I had to give her my chewing gum to atone for my sin. White doves of peace with a palm leave in their beaks, how romantic, war is undying, peace is just a breather and festive balloons as military brass bands play.