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.