It's the battle of Britain all over again.
Arched windows in the eaves
provide my view as from chalk cliffs.
Outside of myself they take me:
the return of the housemartins-
soaring and swooping and astonishing
the weary spirit. Moving
aside, immediate concerns press
like a heap of papers realised 
suddenly in the hand.
But leave a portion of the soul 
looking upwards, faithful in its view.
That ghostly part as stationed,
the necessary observer
in awe of those aerial skills,
such speed and judgement of the wings
so high on beauty.
This part of the soul
should never leave its post.