The weather was beautiful. On an impulse from the sun shining in through the window overlooking the river, Scardanelli decided to escape from his tower, as he had in the past, always followed by a little scolding, but not much.
Hastily down the stairs while nobody’s about, out and left, along the river, up to the bridge, then down the metal stairs onto the island, to the dovecote.
“Shrivelled old man with coarse strands of unwashed grey hair, feeding crumbs to the pigeons.”
The pigeons whose eggs are taken away nowadays and substituted with clay eggs to prevent offspring.
Some mild scolding he will get, he’s sure of that, but mild it will be.
No children today asking for poems.