There is a time before dawn
when the air is rosy-grey and still
before the puppies wake with a yawn
before the birds begin to trill.

In the still and silent hush,
the whole earth holds its breath.
The grass beneath is cool and lush,
and so flees the angel of death.

But still a dove mourns,
perched high on a slender wire
in the misty early morn
not yet burned by fire.

She, soft grey and mauvey-brown,
calls cooing to her mate.
A mourning dove cannot frown,
but simply sits and waits.

On the pale horizon stirs
the sun; She begins to rise.
Soon so will all other birds,
but the dove stays, alone and wise.

But not alone for long,
no, soon she is well met,
by both mate and sweet-sad song,
as the sun sparkles on the wet.

She rises fast and chases away
the cooling mist and burns hot
at the start of a day
that reminds me what I'm not.

The doves have flown
and gone far away
from here. But I've sown
the seeds of an early day.