But then the swallows come clipping and dipping the pool with their wings and beaks. Try again say the swallows but what do they know of time?
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But then the swallows come clipping and dipping the pool with their wings and beaks. Try again say the swallows but what do they know of time?
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Our Lady of August
High above the town on the apex of a golden triangle she spreads her black wings into grey sky. Clouds move like bad dreams around her. Her body a trunk of stone. The sound of men singing to each other, bragging so beautifully with the rain running down their necks. If the wings could cut loose they’d pull her up and up into the heavens above the palazzos and circling squares, up to where the horses go in their heads as they sweat and foam around the sanded square.
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