I wanted to write about swallows

I wanted to write about swallows:

Slicing the sky with a dip of wing,

But the late light lay golden

On the brown winter rushes,

And the rain-churned water

Shone like brass.

I wanted to write about swallows:

Suddenly turning, with a flash of tangerine,

But the swamphens strutted on grass

With a comical nonchalance,

Twisting their necks to peer

With quizzical solemnity.

I wanted to write about swallows:

Catching my heart with their ballet,

But a small coot traced a bow wave on the water,

And a chattering of ducks did their dabble,

And a magpie lark, in the liminal spaces,

Danced lightfoot over mud.

I wanted to write about swallows:

Teaching me again the rhythms of sweet glory,

But the cockatoos screeched in the treetops,

And a heron stood motionless

Until I recalled in its curve

The word ‘grace’ has two meanings.

I wanted to write about swallows,

But instead

Beauty waylaid me.

Humbled,

I wanted to write about swallows.