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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem