At Dawn, Post-haste
At dawn, post-haste,
The swallow’s cry
Comes swooping from the slanted tiles,
Slings itself about my neck and tells me things I half forget,
After that waking hour.
The squawks do fall
When walking under still night-laden trees,
But with those calls, a call descends;
Some half-heard note of company.
She, a friend from winters past,
Now carelessly thrown up,
Crowds into the day I walk
And teeters on the cusp:
A substance on the gullet creeping
Throatless from the trees at dusk,
Her disembodied cry erupts
To dash itself against me.
Against my eyes she falls once more,
As I look on, and shrink away
From all the gaggled colours there
That spill over the grey.