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