Swooping dives doodle the cliffs. Puts your head in a spin just to watch them. And you realize that human eyes are simply too slow to follow even one of these flights.
I feel their blur past my head, watch them fall into the photo shoot light that bounces back off white cliffs, hear them call to each other from flight paths that never collide. Far below, the parabolas seem to stay in sight longer against the blue of a wind brushed sea whose sound has been blown ahead and out of itself. But the birds are riding the air surf here, across the faces of the highest cliffs.
Too late for swallows. These are martins. Sand martins live here and dig their burrows in the sandy top layer of the cliffs. And the house martins who joined them were over on a trip from barns and cottages to join in the insect feast.
The weather was bleak and I got cold, dragged myself inside to have tea, but I could see their threads across the window panes and know I'll be thinking about them all day.
I was doodling and playing with some shots when the flash went off and helped create this strange merging. And it seemed like the stones I was arranging might have been watching those bird flights as well.
And then as I walked for home through the heath, the remains of seed heads were dancing their own doodling curves above the last of the blackberries.
For a short period of time, you can read another of my poems - Summer's end here where it has been selected as part of the poetry twentyten project. The post has been added to since it's first date in 2009, so there are 17 poems by different writers and the page will close and move to this blog here when it reaches 20!
Thanks to Gwilym Williams aka Poet in Residence for posting my piece.