Migration

Above my head
A sycamore 
Scratches cloud
And swallows swoop
To settle on the wires
And telegraph  their teams
To seek the south.

As this westerly 
Turns north
It tips their tails
Towards the pyrenees. 

Martins pause at sunset 
Kissed with gold
Above the Alcazar
Until they reach
Their winter perch:
 A Moroccan minaret.

Will I have the grace to see
Your swoop and chatter
In the Spring return?



Written distracted by the Ladies British Open golf in Hoylake dashed by driving rain but from the comfort of my sofa.

JL Sept 17 11:46