Summer’s end – swallows…

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I walked along the lane to the field at the weekend. I’ve watched this field from winter’s mud, through green shoots of spring, to here - summer’s end and harvest.

The swallows are still with us, swooping high in the air above the cut and round-baled straw. Greedily harvesting insects, storehousing, getting ready for their long journey south through western France, across the Pyrenees, down eastern Spain into Morocco, and across the dry Sahara to South Africa.

Such a long, warm, journey - cinnamon and cloves, oranges and apples.

You can tell that they’re thinking of leaving, sense their excitement in the air. The straw is cut, harvest is upon us – ‘all is safely gathered in’, and for a moment I’m back in the school hall singing along, giving thanks, looking at the corn-sheaf baked bread from Jackman’s the bakers and the mountainous piles of dug and washed allotment vegetables.

They’ll be gone soon and with them summer. But for now they’re here and - ever hopeful, I’ll hang on to them and summer until the flame and plough arrive, turning the stubble to autumn ash.

When that time comes I’ll still be here - and the swallows flying far away will keep the summer for me and another year.