Swift
Ever flying, never ceasing, ever soaring, speed increasing,
Two sharp scythes by your side,
Leaving land behind
Journeying over land and sea,
Flying high, flying free,
Super speed, velocity,
Hawking prey incredibly.
In the air you make a rift,
With your pointed scythe-like wings
Ever moving sinuously swift,
In the air you are the king.
In your flocks at dusk you're screaming,
Rapidly whirling, whooshing, streaming,
To fly is your life's only meaning,
Swiftly whooshing, whirling, screaming.
By Sean Martin-Byrne
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