Morning With Swifts (Poem)

Leave your bed,
and step into the morning.
Heavy skies,
and empty streets.

I thought I heard
the crying of the swifts
as I locked my door.
I looked up,
and studied the sky
but could not see their black silhouettes.

The sea is calling,
grumbling, moaning,
telling secrets
better not to know.

Above, among the grey;
a patch of blue appears
very high,
and very pale.
Across it,
the dark specks flash;
not many – six or eight,
then gone again.

And, in between two floating banks of white,
in that crack of space
(very pale, very high),
I catch a sight,
against the deepening blue,
of a silver sliver;
the last paring
of the dying moon.

Linda Rushby 03 July 2021