Dorothy Gibson

Swifts on a Summer evening

There is a moment for the swifts to fly
to scythe a circle with the scissored wing
and cut a swathe for harvesting the sky.

The light air quivers with their thin sharp cry,
is darkened by the headlong sweep and swing,
there is a moment for the swifts to fly.

The glowing earth, the pallid heavens lie
each side the fevered realm to which they cling
and cut a swathe for harvesting the sky.

Earth's honeyed swarms rise up, are harnessed by
the blood's cool fire for its refuelling,
there is a moment for the swifts to fly.

The fading whispers of earth's grasses sigh,
and trees are listening for the scythe to sing
and cut a swathe for harvesting the sky.

While infinite generations rise and die
who knows the hand and mind for ordering
there is a moment for the swifts to fly
and cut a swathe for harvesting the sky?