Gone ... Like the Swallows
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Balancing on the wind
Leaning on the cliff edge wind
In limbo
He watches sand running through the fingers of his left hand
And into the palm of his right
He sees someone walking in a hot dry wasteland
Young hesitant steps
Recognised her crooked fringe and narrow eyes
Threadbare summer patterned dirty cotton flowered dress
Scratched ankles and nail bitten hands
Wanted to touch her cool brown hair
But she was gone
And his old tired face was still as ever
An aeroplane hummed way up in the sky
High up, high up, high above the clouds
A green tea pot and a pair of boots
A broken pocket watch and chain
A born dead baby pig lying pure white bloodless
Soft smooth as a gloved lady's hand
A spinning wheel, a bell box, an umbrella
Empty bottles, tin baths, ripsaw, a hat stand
And a slate grey pill box hat
They sailed past his grabbing hands
And were gone like the swallows
Stuttered words, stuttered words
Voices asking questions he cannot hear
Come and find us
Step back or you'll fall
But the aeroplane is humming so loud now
Tried to cling to the summer cotton light threadbare
Patterned sleeveless flowered dirty carnation sunflower
Sweat stained primrose threadbare dirty disappearing decaying
Flowered fading cotton forgotten fucking summer dress
But it is gone
Gone like the swallows