Poetry
SWALLOWS
Few of them make it there
and back:
those sleek young things,
neat as waiters used to be,
with no bow-tie but rusty bib
and fork to tail not hand.
I see one perched on
edge of nest, tail-flap bobbing,
flexing muscle of wing
to fan out ribs in superb,
perfectly sculptured symmetry ~
aerodynamic best.
They land on my telephone wires,
measuring a capacity to
balance in the wind,
then swoop in figures of eight to
make a statement of proficiency;
like test pilots they scoop
under the eave of my car port,
landing with fast precision on
last year’s safe house.
They bring huge joy
and awe in natural beauty ~
not only for this:
no questions asked,
they do with energetic importance
what instinctively is …
life.
I wish questions did not exist.
Surely I could be happy without them?