A Sound For Leaving

She came to us in June from a hard navigation 

through coastal wind and hail.
A welcome inheritance,
she lit the inside of a disused garage.
The plate of an air-con unit 
became her refuge and roost.
First she was mistaken for a wood pigeon - 
Charlie said he'd seen one just like her 
in the Barrington Tops, though Emily 
said her breeding was more common
saying Hyde Park and inner city living.
Her beak was short and blunt
her eyes had nutmeg in them.
Her wings were brown, the breastfeathers 
grey with cream striations.
Catching her involved a slow release 
of hands and comforting words
and she'd beat at the air with her wing-joints - 
the sound was like something 
  you hear inside your pillow 
    when fever amplifis the blood.
By the end of August she was gone, 
her place in the garage consigned 
to dust and the feathers she'd discarded.
We looked for her daily in the sky 
over Avalon, in the empty dark.
She had a sound for welcome, and would strut 
in tight circles each time we came home.
Whatever sound she had for leaving
was like her name - unknown, 
and she is loved for it.