Occasionally, I write a poem about something other than cricket. This is one such. It was written, as the title suggests, one late summer day in 2014. I had gone into the garden, as I often do on a summer evening, to watch the swifts, only to find there were none to be seen. They had left, as suddenly as they had come three and a half months before, on their migration south at the end of the mating season. I saw my first swifts of 2020 in May and they took me back to this poem written in the pre-coronavirus world.
It is August and the swifts have gone.
The sky suddenly empty of their limitless, racing flight.
Although the gulls, starlings and others labour on
None matches the swift for sleight of flight or height.Read More »