That time on Hallencoly Hill,
I saw them dancing,

Swallows no less than five,
Larks no more than fifteen.

A display to herald the Zenith
of Spring;
Or the ever-growing Floral song that leads
into June Summer.

Each swallow skipped in skirts of
navy with blouses of snow,

Whilst their heads were crowned with
garlands of crimson roses.

The prancing, springing and
joyous larks,
Were bedecked in stars to the
Swallows' moon.

Yet each had their hair shaped into a
nautical crest;
From aqua one way;
Then surf-ultra the other.

Yet it was their song that came
to me;
Entwined with harps, piccolos,
and flutes,
That danced from twirling invisible
hands.

Words also sprang from the
avian lips;
To the accompaniment of butterflies
cut from the very sky.

Of woods and towns so far away,
That never would I hear of them between
breaks of day.

Of ages old, and ages new;
Yet they had remained in
chiselled prime;
Floral Mountains not even Time
could wither.

Till one spied me with a single
glance.
Fresh, unearthly and with more
than a dance.

And up they flew without a second
glance.
Not nymphs, dryads or even
Elf-maids,
But Maltese-crossed Swallows and
Cloud-passing larks.
To continue their dance upon the brow
of a cumulus hill.

. . .

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