Remembered Wings
Year after year their timing was the same.
As early summer took the place of spring
my swallows came, and briskly gathering
would breed, then raise their young and so proclaim
hope’s renaissance. Each darted sharp as flame
between the earth and sky, remembering
old haunts, despite long miles of wandering.
This year I waited but they never came.
Autumn’s a time for leaving. Cherished things
are embers, as remembered flames burn low,
and vanish with the chill the first frost brings.
A time to grieve, though sadly now not so:
never to greet those brave arriving wings
avoids the pain of parting when they go.
David Anthony
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