Back at the old place, I saw two house martins
high up the gable wall.
None had sought to settle there before,
to spit their muddy puddles out and form a property.
They’d preferred our neighbours’ roof:
the protection, the liberty, of ample decoration. The darkness there
always was more generous, a home-maker’s salvation –
pretty, but hurricane proof.
As darkness thickens, dusk’s exhilaration thins.
Now a further martin flitted in.
Steep to good sense, the three gripped the roughcast.
They settled to survey, confer, to attest
(they’re squat little scraps at rest):
from a blue-black sketch-of-a-guess
they solidified to a delegation, a thorough inspectorate of doubt.
No soul was about – I called softly, softly.
Less softly, not quite a shout.
At last my daughter clattered out, in pink trademarked clobber.
She slowed, though, at this conspirator,
his mock-sharp glance. She stopped, she stepped – a careful dance
nearer. Beneath our tired travellers
we both looked up – shared
seeing’s hush.
A little later she fetched her phone:
no rush – a flourish, but no chatter. I saw her capture
those soft angular shapes, if just as specks (no flash, no zoom).
The eaves were empty when I visited next, early evening / late afternoon.
The martins, I guess, assessed that shelter’s future:
took the measure of tomorrow; or at least, made the attempt.
They’d ‘talked’ at length. They’d paused; paused. Decided against.