Tom Clucas

A flock of doves haphazardly align
along the roof, before a couple curve
in upward flight. As other birds observe
them and pursue, their spreading wings incline
towards the sunset. Now their feathers shine
and almost dazzle, brilliant as they swerve
throughout the dusk, till they alone preserve
a wreath of light against the day’s decline.
Their backs are silver, but their bellies glow
with orange warmth still borrowed from the sky;
they weave a halo high above the lawn,
and circle, till the sun has sunk so low,
that darkness forces them to roost nearby,
returning with the reddening of dawn.