The seagulls are all gone.
Swallows now are swooping the sky;
though in truth I suppose
my swallows are house martins
that nest like kestrels in the tall cliffs of towns.
I remember once waiting through long hot summer days
feeding an orphaned bird,
and thinking : if he survives,
all will be well.
All was not well
and the bird died.
Saverne, 12th June 1995.
