31.

Mid July

I remember reading Richard Mabey`s book: Nature Cure, and as well as thinking, ‘Yes, yes, I recognise that,’ over and over again, I noticed that at that time he hadn`t been privileged enough to observe the evening vanishings of the swifts.

I am lying on the roof terrace and see and hear them as they gather, shriek, divide, rise, spiral, then swoop again. Each swoop down is followed by a higher rise and a conglomeration, until they do not descend again. There they are, like sky born frogspawn, barely audible, rising and rising, in patches and swabs which join together. Eventually there is silence, the sky is dim and the swifts have vanished. They must be swinging in some stratosphere, cradled in light air.

I juxtapose their image with that of a suffocated society living in an airless, over pixelated atmosphere and fall asleep, only to awake on the roof, stiff but not cold, and realise that no nightingales are serenading. They have left. This leaves me with a faint melancholia as it surely signifies the peak of summer. Now I have difficulty, in spite of the wet towels, in falling asleep again in my usual bed.