I smile at the wood-pigeon’s enduring song
that links past and present like a jewelled thread,
that weaves unseen between the threads of darker hue,
then springs to sight as he cries
“Purple, GOLD and blue!”
that links past and present like a jewelled thread,
that weaves unseen between the threads of darker hue,
then springs to sight as he cries
“Purple, GOLD and blue!”
Nothing so reminds me of being a child in Mudeford, in our house surrounded by tall pines, as the sound of the Purple GOLD and blue of the pigeon. We have a peskier French one out here who is so omnipresent that when my grandson Luca came to stay at not much more than a year old, he learned to do a superb impression of the coo cooing- very very funny!
ReplyDeleteIN my case, Sally, it's idyllic summers in my Auntie May's beautiul 16th century house and garden.
ReplyDeleteDid she live somewhere like Dawlish in Devon? I remember Clare once writing a piece about a holiday spent there.
ReplyDelete