Shift Handover Poem by Dan Reynolds

I sit upon the old slate steps
Click my fingers, instant dusk.
As the swallows strafe the lawn
hoovering up the last few midges,
the Magpies, wood-pigeons and finches
already at roost, but still mumbling to each other.
In comes the night shift.
And for a few minutes, we have both.
Swallows and bats in competition?
The speed and agility of both escape my comprehension
but fill me with respect and a strange warm acknowledgement.
It’s now that I stand up.
I know their nightly flight-path, through the silver birches
round the Rowan tree (Warder off of evil spirits)
In and out of the open garage
Then over my head and shoulders.
Eyes closed, I feel their wings breeze past
as though breaking the morning webs.
Can I hear the faint clicking of sonar?

Perhaps.

I’ll leave the outside light on for ten minutes
and tempt some moths in for them.