Doves Flying from Gravel in the Cemetery
La Petite Maine, pouring silently
though Montaigu across the water-meadow.
I come up its banks, and through the stained gates.
Then strain for resurrection:
the notes of bones reshuffled,
if I listen. In this cold, careful cemetery,
still since November.
But now the air is brought to life. By
the hush of wings
rising from crunched gravel
pathways. Rock doves sweep over the close railings.
Their quiet circle through the covered sky
so easy it leaves
behind only
white above grey:
a line of water winding below and the chalk of
soft birds becoming smudged over the elms.
Flight out of the blind; barely heard.
Then back to that autumn day on the Rue des Fleurs,
soundless while cornering
flint walls to find your marker,
passing regards to wrought-iron graves.
Some newly raised;
all of us working on the silence.
* Kerry Featherstone is lecturer in creative writing at Loughborough University. He writes poems and songs in French as well as English. www.myspace.com/kerryorange
