Turtledove
Six o’clock on a Sunday morn
I hear the call of a forlorn
Dove. Its mourning sound so sadly
pled evokes a melancholy.
It spurred my thinking back in time
When I was of another mind:
A time when we had fell in love
And witnessed by a turtledove.
So many springs have come and gone
And still I hear its cry at dawn.
A sound that conjures up in me
A sad but loving reverie:
A daydream of that morning bird
Whose sad refrains we both had heard.
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