On hearing the swallows’ song

A field of wheeling notes

and sounds,

black speckles darting

gainst a cloud

lit golden grey,

night’s morning shroud,

which scoops and sends

their chorus down:

The ripples fall,

from tinkling flight

of singing swarm

at tallest height,

as, all devout,

their windsung rites

escape the heavens,

and alight

on me

and bright my lowly face

by way of sky’s excited rain –

a sweet arpeggiated skein

which calls me forth to fly and play.

Now caught,

adorned with awe, absorbed,

I strain enamoured eyes

and more;

if only one

would deign to fall

and scrape my sole

away from all

that holds me

far below that throng

of swallows

scraping anvil strong,

performing

all the evening long –

mere motes

composing purest song.