Swallows
Tipping,
turning,
under the slate-grey,
the thunder morning
the deepening dark
of May time skies,
a weaving,
of invisible lines
of invisible light,
above the fields
the pointing church,
the winding lane,
for June is near
and high summer
waits
beneath the green,
the swallows,
silent,
singing, here again.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
