Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Swifts by Andy Barritt

skating
     warm aether
         the swifts return
no longer fouled
     by trailing nets
         of rain, black scythes
harvest the blue
     meniscus that teeters
         like a dinner plate
between crossed eyes
     right on the nose
         stuff, these feats
of gyroscopic skill
     so hard to see
         as other than joy
when they shrill wild
     thrilling in roll and shoal
         seething in knots
suddenly falling
     in sequence
         like a dropped chain
as a hobby’s silhouette
     sharks over, too quick
         to rake the shallows
from which they spiral
     into smaller gyres
         rising
and rising
     to rest
         in falling.


Andy Barritt, East Midlands, UK

3 comments:

Owl Who Laughs said...

A beautiful poem! And a most marvelous way to bring Bolts of Silk to an elegant closure.

The dreams of poets are much like the journeys of swifts.

Chris

Lady Lilith said...

Very nice poem.

A Cuban In London said...

I love the ending: from which they spiral
into smaller gyres
rising
and rising
to rest
in falling.

What a beautiful imagery. Thanks.

Greetings from London.