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.