Tony Quarrington

Outside my bedroom window
A lonely wood pigeon sits,
Mourning his mate that has
Mysteriously gone missing
This past week and a half.

Compelled to remain
On the same spot,
On the same branch,
On the same tree,
Day after day after day
In the hope she may return.

He has neither called out
Nor left his perch to hunt for her,
He waits, still and stoic,
As a pair of frisky magpies
Cavort blindly above his head
And a nimble squirrel scurries
Along the adjoining branch.

He does not flinch a feather,
But sits and waits
For when his life
Will be the same again.

Though it can never be.