The drawn-out days steal up,
unpossessed slip by. While roadside
capitals, white-on-red,
state changed priorities ahead;
we are waiting on swifts.
In vested hi-vis yellow
men make good our broken pavements.
Caught on cones and catkins,
flapping plastic bags grace the verge.
We are waiting on swifts.
Horse chestnut buds are plump
on the sticky brink of bursting.
Trees in leaf give cover;
it’s harder now to see round corners.
We are waiting on swifts.
Exploding from hedgerows
partridge settle on the field’s far side.
A still chill wind is pregnant
with the weighing of unmarked scripts.
We are waiting on swifts.
Hawthorn snow at Easter,
within the dwell time of our gaze,
is rarely seen to fall.
But yet gets littered on the ground.
We are waiting on swifts.
We are waiting on swifts:
the skies above with insects swarm.
When true blue summer comes,
these migrants, scythe-winged, find a home.
We’re hearing now their scream.
