Twin doves endure the naked rookeries
Of Whitechapel, a breached stronghold
Tangled in the roots of blurred obituaries,
These birds are forerunners of old
Heartbreak. And the frosty window panes
Conceal the words that have been rolled
Into spears that pierce our seeping pains.
Oh do not speak of her: the solemn widow
Who perches drenched, staring at drains
Wishing to ride the golden echo
Of a love she forgot to let go.