The rose I planted

The rose I planted has become pink stars
pricked out on a green sky
of leaves whose tree I cannot identify.

Pigeons mound the roof
like melting snow,
watchful of feeders and the birds below.

Pests all of them, but one I loved
milk white, its wing
barred like piano keys, miraculous mating.

Now, in the gale, petals fall like pink snow
and my piano dove lies on the grass
cat-killed, no head, wings spread. It is endless

the rose and the dove
with its piano wings,
this passing of beautiful things.

Ann Pilling 2024

This poem appears in "In Flight" published by Mudfog Press. For details click here.