The Final Swallow

I thought you’d gone; that it was over

for the season and what was left was to wait out

the winter. It only feels like yesterday that you

swooped in to promise summer, a month or so

before your tardy cousins. They left last month,

swift in visit as in name. Where have you been? Up north,

we know that much. Scotland? Is the grass

greener up there? And how was the diet? Gnats

for breakfast, dinner and tea: a bland menu for

the bairns, but who would scoff at such easy

pickings? You’ve had your fill, done your bit

and now your aim is south, to warmth and

flies unknown to those condemned

to this green and pleasant land. But first,

one last sortie over crags and fells,

belly kissing grass laid out to dry. The

sun catches your chest, dark cherry red, as

autumn’s cool snatches mine and I

think I can see my breath. What have you

made of us this year? Did you hear our indoor

sobs and wonder why so few stood by

the heaps of soil to say farewell to

those whose journeys ended far too soon?

In six months’ time will you return for

another stab at summer?

They say we’ll have to feast on insects one day, and if

that’s true I guarantee there’ll be a gang

that monetises midges. They’ll tell us it’s our

patriotic duty to eat your food. I’d share of course, since I spend

each winter hoping you’ll come back.

When will time cease to be cruel?