A Dead Dove at Swanwick Station
It seemed frozen in flight
as if negotiating
a soft landing or a tight
right hand turn and tried to fling
it's wings out wide to interrupt
a sudden stall, it's landing gear
unworkable, or an abrupt
and unseen source of fleeting fear.
It was perfect and unmarked,
crouching, head between it's knees.
A few white feathers charted
the spot it lay beneath the trees.
It's hooded eyes and ungainly
posture pointed to something wrong;
it's life forced out, profanely
emptied of any sound or song.
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