Swallows
A hot day among cold, hard stones
Of crumbled Abbey remnants
Whose fallen arches and tumbled walls
Tell monastic tales of a distant past
And stand stark against a dark blue sky
Which threatens later thunder
Yet, still, there are strong shadows
Providing pools of cooler air
Where one may sit a while
And gaze across the finely-razored grass
To watch in frank amazement
The antics of daring aerial acrobats
Swooping down at break-neck speed
Soaring, then wheeling round
Before diving sharply
To skim low above the ground
Twisting and turning
Seeming to stop dead in mid-air
To change direction in a blink
Then banking away again between the ruins
Seconds later re-emerging, jet-like
Black-and-white arrows
Fanning out in formation
Spitfire-winged stuntmen
Trailing sleek, long-forked tails
Chittering, chattering amongst themselves
In high-pitched communication
Co-ordinating their attacks
Upon the lazy insects
And one is left to wonder
If those medieval monkish men
Who once worked and walked here
So many centuries ago
Saw this same dazzling display
And applauded the power of their Creator
To fashion these clever little creatures
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