The Call Of A Wood Pigeon

Lying awake in my dormitory
I listen and from far away
I hear a bird calling me -
Softly it comes,
Softly it goes,
My tame contentment -
Leading me to suppose
Its owner is a kingly bird.
Softly it comes,
Softly it goes.
And where the firs, dark, morose
Their red barks set close
On damp-mossened ground -
There is the source
And loud is the sound.

1951, England)

by Philippa Lane

Other poems of LANE (45)

Comments (1)

You are the Queen of Imagery and the Lady of Colors! Truly wonderful work. Patricia Gale