by Philip Brady
I saw your lines discrete between the leaves,
And saw the thoughts within the lines unfold,
A breath too fine for spoken word to breathe,
A whispered thought the world could not be told.
The swallows came to lengthen summer’s day,
To listening eaves their journey’s story told,
The swallows left across the ripening fields
Where autumn turned their memories into gold.
Across the seas, across the mountains flown,
The swallows heed the calls to Capricorn,
But where the springboks on the Highveld roam
They rest awhile and hear the calls of home.
Where bluebells scatter spring between the trees
The swallows whispered secrets to the eaves.