We were there, when the swallows had come,
to prepare their young,
for the long flight south,
to the waterholes of Africa.
You may be there, when they return again,
or even when the first flutters of snow will fall,
following the spiraling dance
of the hazel’s browning leaves.
And because you’re tired, you may come,
to draw from a memory of simpler times,
or to pass some peace and wisdom,
to your impatient young, and restless.
But whenever, and whatever, draws you near,
you will know that when here you dwell,
from the trees there will coo a lullaby
and its woodland waters will weave you a spell.
©Copyright Niall OConnor 2014