Sand Martins
(Evening Roost — Pagelsham Essex.)

 

There were sand martins:
         just a few -
the oth­er year they set­tled here in thousands
and no-one knew exact­ly whence they came.

Spec­u­la­tion: choos­es what it will -
sand­pits in Essex, Suf­folk, or Norfolk;
the steep-sided banks of our Anglian rivers.

They had more sand to come -
their sub-Saha­ran win­ters drew them on
towards the sun and oth­er warm­ing instincts.

The evening roost expanded:
the wires could not hold them -
strange staves — strange notations.

The music sum­mer makes can overcome -
     dirges, laments, threnodies,
all the vale­dic­tions and the strains
         of mourn­ful cellos.

      Thou­sands, thousands,
beat­ing their wings against the har­vest moon:
that mas­sive, molten, amber-full illusion
resound­ing: in the owl-light — like a drum.
 

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