There is a dove on the pavement,
wings bent at improbable angles,
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.
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.