But it's diluted with sky, not water,
the aerial plankton on which they sup.
Our solitary pipistrelle flickers
over her chosen suburban quarter,
echo-locating, to siphon it up.
It nourishes birds as well as bats -
high-flyers that feed on the wing,
swifts, house-martins - this floating gruel
of hymenoptera, midges and gnats,
thunderbugs, beetles, aphids, flies,
moths, mosquitoes, and flying dots
almost too small to be worth naming.
Some of it swirls at a lower level -
a broth of midges over a pool
at dusk or a simultaneous hatch
of mayflies boiling up from Lough Neagh:
swallow-fodder, and also a splotch
to plaster on any passing windscreen,
though even at speed there's never so much
as of yore; bad news for the food-chain,
but somehow ‘où sont les neiges d'antan'
sounds too noble a note of dole
for a sullying mash of blood and chitin.
(And we can't hear what the bats are screaming.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem