The swallow

In the whitewashed winterland

flutters the snowflake speckled silhouette

of the last remaining swallow

longing for release, yet fearing to forget

the azure skies and emerald summers

of years gone by.  But unrealised dreams

have turned the land of infantile fantasy

into ravaging glacial streams.


Should you find the window to my soul ajar,

could you let the swallow in my heart

build a tiny abode in your summer palace?

- whence its return shall herald the start

of spring and love and life...

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