Daniel Greenwood

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,

spring’s ending

brought on

by the declining

surf of sky,

or sea?