Swallow Tales.

The swallows sip the morning dew
And snare spider webs as keepsakes,
A net of memories to keep tucked away
When darkness seems to rise.

They stroke the dancing heads of faded
yellow grass
Sending seeds in a flurry.
Their chatter is urgent and excited
And marigolds catch-a-fire in their wake.

They tell stories of burning hot deserts,
Locust swarming black as night,
Oasis and ancient trade routes:
Camel trains and mystifying scents,
Of long forgotten cities buried in sand.

They tell of jungles screaming with strange noises
And rivers raging over fathomless, cascading falls;
Of clamorous birds the colour of rainbows,
And fierce cats with eyes of yellow fire.

It is then I wish to hold the swallows
With invisible thread,
To keep them close like treasured memories,
Lock them away in my head forever.
As they gather on the wire, their tribe
Increasing as the sun sinks low,
I groan for their passing
And yearn once more to hear their exotic tales