One moonlit night before sleep as I slipped into reverie, I was sure I heard the susurration of feathery wings, rippling through the midnight air outside my window.
I’d been watching the swallows on the moors swooping and diving, small gulps weaving a beautiful sky dance, exuding joy from delicate wings, seemingly a pre-migration celebration . They had filled their beaks with flying insects, mosquitos, ants and crane flies, in preparation for this night, this night of melancholic harmony, this night when the wind blew from the north to help them begin their long journey. Now flying was no longer a wonderful gig in the sky under a golden orb but a serious and resolute necessity, brought about by the changing season, the squally showers cooling the air, the berries that blush on the trees, the colours of the sun caught in the bracken and leaves. And they took off one by one from their perches of hawthorn and oak leaving the moors by the light of the moon.
Will it always be ?
At this time of year
When hawthorn berries are ripe
Under darkening skies
When colours deepen and shadow
And trees bend and bow their heads
To the calling breeze, and mizzle wet branches droop in
Lonely Mist,
Will it always be that the wind and cooler rain,
Tell the swallows to gather and fly
And wings brush leaves through trees that wail and cry
Will there always be a melancholic hymn
as trails of moonlight fade in their wake.
Limited edition variable print. Purchase one here