Swirling high in the blue sky
their yachting wings bringing
them across Africa and Spain;
Swifts will soon be returning;
homing back to our village again.
Then I can only crane my neck
to follow them as aloof they fly –
low and high, quartering the sky.
They cannot share their world;
any love for them is always vain,
all they care for are bugs and air.
I can only watch while they soar,
leaving me below – lost in awe.
© D G Moody 2022