I am a homing dove.
The flock have gobbled down
the quarrelled grubs they snatched
along the avenue.
I left to perch above
that noisy lot and found
the place beneath me gripped
by angst and mirth and rue.

It puzzles me to see
the sunlit gilded vane
below me, yet atop
St Mary’s ancient spire,
the regal Moon’s dismay
at clouds’ diffusive stain,
at cats and mice and bugs —
the Earth’s night-time attire.

I am a homing dove.
Thou art a crazy world
intent to come along
but for a briefest moment.
My destination set,
the Master’s chart unfurled,
I’m gripping fast the perch
but soon I won’t be on it.