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Swifts criss-cross
The late evening sky,
Its slate-grey clouds leaden
With the expectation of rain.
Their silhouette wings
Pierce the pregnant gloom,
Like arrows through
Love’s aching hearts.
A Spring dance
Long and languorous
Weaves its tapestry
High above the eye
Which watches for a sign
A trail to leave a clue
To love’s lost song
Of whispers on the breeze,
As silent still
They soar.