Lamentation (for a dead dove)

There is a dove on the pavement,

neck broken,

wings bent at improbable angles,

eyes open,

black beads fixed, staring at the sky that

she is in exile from.

A white collar remains around her neck

but the constraints upon her are broken,

broken, like the tiny bones that constrained her throat.

Above her, the birds call in Greek chorus

a fall from grace, could be their fate too.

She lies

a dove grey apostrophe on the concrete

which is a darker grey beneath.

Little dead thing, blink your eyes,

open your wings

and fly, fly

into the bone white sky.

A poem inspired by a poor little dead dove that I saw on my way home.


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