Swifts spread across

the sky and stop,

part starfish

brought by a retreating

surf, pigeons bolting

from a setting,

behind cloud.

 

Always, always,

the world is a

painting.

 

I listen to the tits

pleading from the nest

box, one bird out

and the other bird

in, a single note

between them.

 

Hawthorn flowers

are a tree lit

by snow in the

middle of May,

but is spring or

winter late?

I worry that the

old tree is dying,

that a part

of my youth might

not outlive me.

 

Happiness is the sound

of swifts screeching,

the migrants testing

the evening,

springโ€™s ending

 

brought on

by the declining

surf of sky,

or sea?