For Sylvia Brogo
From the hollow of winter comes a flight of swallows,
a shape, opaque at first, that flows into swallows.
The valley is wide with olive groves & lines of vines,
leaves in motley, shadowed by crossing swallows.
Snow shimmers from the silhouette of mountains,
glitters on green farms & red villas that house swallows.
It’s a shard of time in a Tuscan landscape, the being here now
simple and profound, while evening slows to a flight of swallows.
The flock begins as a wisp of smoke, then expands to lace
unravelling - as they feed on invisibility - the swallows.
Finally, they approach me like a fable from boyhood -
being lost then found & brought home by billowing swallows.
Ross Donlon is an Australian poet who is widely published both at home
& in Ireland. He has travelled extensively in Australia & many parts
of Europe reading his poems. The ghazals in this case are of two
different ‘places’; one from Radda in Tuscany, the other a state of
mind, being neither awake or asleep. www.rossdonlon.com