The Swallows (A poem)

Felix Bracquemond, The Swallows, c. 1881

And with the swoop of the swallows
I know the season has changed
The return of the familiar
The comfort and the soul smile

And they race and chase
Dipping low in a circular motion
Embracing the air
Like a lasso above my head

And when children are sleeping
I sit in the quiet of the day
As the evening sun dips into the lows
I await their fading, moving sound in the skies

And I lean in
Like an old friend on the telephone
“I recognise that voice”
This turning of a new season gives me no choice

By Leah Boden

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