A field of wheeling notes
and sounds,
black speckles darting
gainst a cloud
lit golden grey,
night’s morning shroud,
which scoops and sends
their chorus down:
The ripples fall,
from tinkling flight
of singing swarm
at tallest height,
as, all devout,
their windsung rites
escape the heavens,
and alight
on me
and bright my lowly face
by way of sky’s excited rain –
a sweet arpeggiated skein
which calls me forth to fly and play.
Now caught,
adorned with awe, absorbed,
I strain enamoured eyes
and more;
if only one
would deign to fall
and pluck my sole
away from all
that holds me
far below that throng
of swallows
scraping anvil strong,
performing
all the evening long –
mere motes
composing purest song.
Joe Spring writes 