The Thinking Poet



Crescent moon;
Crescent-winged aerial loonies
Hurling fleet, svelte bodies
In swoop and fluttering turn,
Dredging seas of azure sky
For tiny gnat and fly.

High above this tousled field
Tumbling with podded rape
Swallows feed late.
Clouds like ships on fire
Drift towards the west
Where light resists the night.

Now their frenzied flight is done.
Distant pines are stencilled on the afterglow.
Scribed upon my mind is solstice night.
Memory, like midsummer's light, abides
So that swallows still can swoop for me on Christmas day
Though bathed in southern sun they play so far away.