by Marion Adams
Between the sycamores and the sea
they come out of nowhere:
silk and steel flung straight at your heart.
You have to stop,
become the centre of their cut-out space.
You have to stay as they weave you in
and hold you fast.
It is as if they waited for you,
as if they know.
Once or twice,
they skitter in too close.
You think that you could snatch one
right out of the air.
You think of wings the colour of warm midnight skies
sawing your cupped palms,
soft, dark ribbons trailing down your wrists.
Of course, you only think of this.
You turn and watch them
navigate the golf-course,
dip towards the bunker-sand
as if rehearsing for the desert;
you hope, you fear for them.
A damp wind coils around the cliff.
Sycamore keys whirl towards the sea.
And when you look back, they are gone.
Swallows by Marion Adams was first printed in Issue 1 of Bare Fiction Magazine (December 2013).