Poem: A certain thrum

A certain thrum


Two doves cooing turn,
a twist of air their bodies

make, undersides dyed
golden by sun. The cloud 

is no more than a moist air, 
is no more and is there again

among the blue. My pup, amber 
coat, leans on my leg. We watch,

I the clouds, she the street, the heat 
we’ve languished under all day begins 

to break. Hummingbird ascends the roof 
& all the angels bejeweling her 

pause, sip sugar water through straws.

—Elizabeth Pinborough