Poet's note: The first swallow

The first swallow, so thin and tired that at first glance I'm not sure if it is a swallow, but then comes that unmistakable twist of wings at speed, and a bubble of happiness bursts inside me. 

Poet's note: The swallows are not yet here

The valley is holding its breath, waiting for the first swallows to arrive.

The chaffinches are back, and the goldfinches – where have they been? – and the long-tailed tits. The robins have never left home, and now a pair have nested in the cypress hedge.  Sparrows are chirping in the hawthorn bushes, goldfinches twitter as they flit from one drystone wall to another; jackdaws holler as they dive down from the high outcrops of millstone grit. 

But the air over the canal is silent. The swallows are not yet here.