Patercove

The hawthorne tree is dead.
Trunks of ivy like pythons,
cauliflowers growths of bark,
follow it from the root
to the upper reaches,
the tree brain, the head,
and the sky's blue roof.
In the wig of branches
bleaching in the canopy
a hoary old dove sits
collared like a priest,
cooing lust and melancholy
with a wheezing noise
like a broken accordion.

Around the neighbourhood
its rivals call magnificently
from the tops of rooves,
from throne-like chimneys,
clattering into the air
to survey their territory,
chasing sleek she-doves
across patios and lawns
with the bent hopstep
of the terminally sprung.
The bull dove still cooes,
monotone, hopeless,
growing stupider gradually,
forgetting its many children,
lost in ivy and rheumatism.

It is able to hear only
the language of starlings
as they build new empires,
which is incomprehensible,
and sounds like laughter.