Doves John Short

John Short Doves

The dove looks alarmed as its mate goes flying off the sideboard’s edge when you fling a door.

Forty years, same place, you used to tell me how instalments ensured the pair were yours.

Now you sit in this pool of senseless oblivion and don’t even shed a tear as I brush up fragments,

dream miraculous repairs like those lost vases jigsaw-pieced to live again impossibly from earth.