As I watched a single bird soar above a hedge, swoop to gain velocity, and then dart across a late autumn pasture, a field which has so often and so dependably fostered and nurtured so many of his ilk. At that moment the precarious, transient nature of his kind and the present circumstances, initiate several lines of contemplation.
Most of August through October twenty twelve had been miserable. Some times there would be two or even three consecutive inclement days when the fledgling swallows huddled on the A frames of the cow shed, unable to get out to hawk and feed in order to prepare themselves for the epic journey they must soon attempt.
The Last Swallow
Our feathered guests had prospered, many clutches fledged and flown.
As the days grow short and colder, one last swallow hawks alone.
Whilst leaning on our Geary gate, I watch him swoop and soar,
And I trust he’s reaping harvest from the autumn’s dwindling store.
Very soon he needs must leave us, ere blow the winter’s gales.
Still if the wind veers north of west he may gain the coast of Wales.
Where lies his one salvation, this blithe soul who soars so free,
To remain means sure starvation or he may perish on the sea.
Flocks of swallows used to gather in their vast autumnal throngs.
I’ve sensed the fraught excitement, heard the eager twittering songs.
Once a safe and bounteous haven, soon the larder would lie bare.
The days then growing shorter, they must cast their lot elsewhere.
All at once the skies are empty, they’re away and on the wing.
Whilst we await their sure return, swift harbingers of spring.
Twenty twelve was surely different, no fledglings tarried here,
Migrating independently, no autumn flocks this year.
Trusting not the season, leaving whilst they sense the chance,
Perhaps to thrive and prosper, in the warmer climes of France.
What they face beyond Gibraltar, I’ve no means to comprehend,
They confront the old Dark Continent, and traverse it end to end.
We all know their epic saga with its eternal question why,
As I view with hope and wonder, this virtuoso of the sky.
How did the first ones come here? However could they tell,
That beyond the vast Sahara lay a land which serves them well?
So small and light and perfect when you hold one in your hand.
Yet there‘s much about the swallow, we may never understand,
From cobweb covered windows I’ve released them by the score.
They may navigate to Cape Town once they find our cowshed door.
Still it’s not too hard to comprehend such things fall as they may,
Glass was not then in common use when God wrote their DNA.
David Kelly
FYI This piece was composed on The Isle of Man. If you migrate south from here the only place you are going is Anglesey.
David Kelly | Poetry & Short Stories 