the bee fits in its tut in the wall.
butterflies are the traffic on the lanes.
nothing in Adderbury recalls
the departed swifts - that were reared and trained
at this citadel they abandoned - gone
to Africa but seemingly around
the corner - hidden in time like the dongs
of the church clock. they have been impounded
by rain forest and savannah and yet
they always remember the season
of their origin and manage to get
back for the nestboxes’ brief adhesion.
time is a wall into which swifts burrow.
space hatches and does without tomorrows.
19 August 2021