The aerial spectacle,
Begun in May,
Continues throughout June, July
And on into August
In the clear pastel skies
Above town and English countryside;
Slick, curved black shapes,
Perfect designs
To cut and scythe
The sunlit air,
They swoop down —
Single, in formation or in line —
With effortless speed and grace,
Rolling, twisting, occasionally shrill screaming
As they come
To distribute death
Amongst the tiny, winged multitudes below.
But these are not the Spitfires, Hurricanes
Or Messerschmitts of old,
And the destruction they cause
Not the vengeance of a cruel war.
Rather, a perennial struggle
To feed, reproduce
And fly free again.
One that, maybe, will never end —
Assuming the Spring and they return —
Year after year
Long into the unimagined future,
Beyond human strife and bombs,
So that this most joyous scene shall remain,
The Swifts in full chase or play,
A certainty, a must
Each May...
And on into August.
