It’s not his usual evening call, the tender
I loove you, I doo– but a soft lament –
Crr, crr, from the top of the memorial.
Below, at the path’s edge – feathers splayed –
a lifeless woodpigeon, her throat torn open.
I hear my ooh, ooh, added to his,
and stare across the grasses, bluebells,
buttercups… All summer lies ahead,
the earth at its most plentiful,
their young unfledged. He watches, too,
the other pairs on a twilight forage before
that last race through the air, the sudden
plunge into sycamore to roost. Silent now,
he stands like patience on a monument
gazing at a new companionless world
uncertain what he is to be, or do.