where this dove will go

when her wings turn grey

when her call grows old.

Will she turn to the mirrors of young sparrows

to slide into delusion,

or will a deaf window offer her a perch to sing?

How will she apologise to a traveller

wanting to stroke her feathers

when the flock scatters?

How will she strut through the courtyard

or impress the grass?

Will she look for a kind boy

to grind her a grain of wheat

or an old flame

to relight ageing passions?

Perhaps she will divide her sadness

between a window and a metal cage.

Perhaps she'll become a professional mourner

at the funerals of birds.

Imagine

where this dove will go

when the trees donate her their lowest branch

and when neighbours are indifferent to her past.