My Previous Life as a Swallow
My second cousin twice removed arrived in May
at her old nest in the eaves of the ruined barn.
I see her and her partner flying in and out
on the crest of breezes we used to surf together,
joining dusk aerobatics at the big sycamore.
As fledglings she and I roved the wind,
learned the language and texture of air,
how to turn and wheel, twist and curl,
read and ride storms. We loved to scud hedgerows,
skim cattle, flash through trees. And the laughter,
the joy of it, bubbling out and over everything,
fuelling epic autumn journeys to the South,
where we witnessed wonders of worlds away
from the dart and dive of home; and thrilled
to our long return in spring, savouring our origin.
I cannot remember how I became human
and perhaps I am mistaken that it is she
but I know we are kin.
When William Coniston retired he turned to writing and shortly before COVID became infected with poetry, from which he has never recovered. He has been published in periodicals and anthologies and recently graduated with an MA in (Creative Writing).