Swallows
Traffic of swallows over cow dung in May’s yard.
The low, dark arrows turned up every summer
To a nest in the timbers of the byre
Where they gossiped high in gossamer.
There was a gap at the door where they got in,
Which I blocked against their orbiting.
Then I swung an empty canvas sack until
I brought one down.
I grabbed it, but my hands had more
Than I could grasp. The fins of a wind-worker
Gathered at the shoulder, eye-gleam on ochre,
Their seeds of knowing overcome by me.
The air was oppressive in that outhouse,
So I went out to the light and set the wings free.