A dove sinks through the air.
like a little boat,
lost in the ocean with a hole in its side.
A languid storm torments her,
slowly and silently,
until the beauty in her body is run out by grey.
Light from her face is dwindled to a shadow,
a hollow frame,
and each bone is standing high
– out of place.
Yet, through the cold she flies
to a hill where time stops
and she bathes in a pool of silence.
A fleeting moment of peace dances in winter twilight,
is the perpetual creep towards an ashen flood.
For a stolen second grey fades
and life saturates:
there is light. And it triumphs.
But too soon the evening tide must pull her away,
feather by feather,
clawing, until she sinks, bare, into a dark sea of stone.
Her eyes glaze open in a search for sleep,
and tortured by vague sentience:
she floats, transient and motionless in a calm panic.
With cruel ease, the night greets the dove:
he takes her
all at once.
The ochre brush of her life, in time, is short
but she leaves a drop
golden and beautiful in a swelling sea of grey.
And that is how the dove
lost her flight.
In memory of Katy Dove 1970-2015