by Imogen Cassels

There was the run up of
vicious gravel to the moment
of the smooth stone floor,
the yellow honey wash
that is two homes to me.
The door, green, dark,
the crumpled lines of insect
netted in two of four corners.
The ceiling.

The nest that halved itself
against the wall, the tightly
woven sticks and clay of love,
or instinct. The swallows: quick,
sweet shadows that forked and
lit over the beam.

The warmth in the light when
we return from the rocks
and darkening skies.
The wind through the lovely
wishbone of their feathers
makes them lucky.

And I am lucky too, as I wait
outside the cottage door,
to catch the thrum of
learning wingbeats.