A Year of Flight

Seeds in June, nonchalantly,

like tourists

flying on the south-westerlies,

dawdling

where snowflakes in January

were hustled along

or the mists that spent days

‒ like looped film ‒

throwing shawls

over mountains’ shoulders.

Swallows plane lush lanes,

green larders;

later sycamore helicopters

flicker down

those same corridors

or thud, the crab apples

escaping with their summer’s booty;

globes of  pinhead lights:

fruit flies in pools of sun.

The spume cutting loose

from the waves

in Winter storms,

Guinness head rolling up the beach.

Aimless flight of gulls

in the high winds

chipped off the cliff-face;

above the houses, curdled cloud, 

charcoal crows,

disturbed people.