They flew round,
dark quivering bodies flying clearly,
against the sky;
a smoky blue.

A dark flash, a swerve, a dart aside, a curve,
a flutter of wings.
All darting bodies passed.

 Flying high
in straight curving lines,
left to right
circling a temple of air.

He listened to the cries:
the notes: long, shrill, whirring trilled.
Clear and fine.

 Inhuman clamour swerving round
soothed his eyes…
the image of his mother’s face.

 Good, evil and shapeless thoughts
of birds and their knowledge.
An ancient temple of unknown symbols
of the writers and the moon.

 God’s image: a judge in a wig.
Remembered like an Irish Oath.
It was Folly.
They came back, flying darkly
against the fading air.

 Birds, from the South:
ever going, coming, building
an unlasting home,
under the soft silent spaces of fading sky. 

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