We haven’t seen so many this year, but we still delight in watching them.
Away and to windward,
across Africa and Spain,
and high over the bay of Biscay,
the swallows are now returning;
their yachting wings bringing
them back to our village again;
as one by one they all arrive,
to gather – perched on lines.
Earth-bound I crane my neck
to follow them, while aloof they fly –
low and high as they quarter the sky.
My love for them must be in vain:
they do not – cannot, share their world,
for all they care for are bugs and air;
I can only watch them as they soar
as I’m left below – watching in awe.
© D G Moody