Swifts
Watch them on this Summer’s night –
They hunt and sleep upon the wing,
Scything through the fading light
With high-pitched screams – they never sing.
High in the humid air they sail
Like scimitars, their swept-back wings
A sooty brown with short forked tail;
They prey on flies and other things.
A Spitfire squadron’s deadly flight,
Now swooping low across the lane,
Airborne spiders now in sight –
Attack ! Climb high and swoop again.
These summer visitors will fly home soon
To Africa, before the next new moon.
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