The laughing dove

by Liz Trew

The smallest dove in the scent of jasmine
nests among new leaves
of my grapevine

turns slowly clockwise
nudging her warmth around the next
always on her careful egg

turns her head, her folded wings
her cinnamon back and white-tip tail
always with the egg against her breast

so deep her attention towards the growing embryo
unshaken by the howling gale, the piercing drill next door
the boom of the noon-day gun and the flash of my light at night

the blue-grey dove, the laughing one
faithful on her egg
the centre of her turning world

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