Petals glow with evening's light, slant and dip, weighted. Come dusk,
they'll turn their heads east, await sun's return. Frost is near,
some have grown old and move no more.
A little boy runs past, following swoop and swagger of the swallow,
imitating their darting and dashing in the air.
The boy, unlike the swallow, screams for dinner. A man strides forward,
lifts him high, dives and dips him toward flannel, checkered "nest".
A basket and plates await; laughter and sticky fingers next.
Side by side, they leave meadow behind, traverse shadowed trail
where leaves and limbs enshrine; one voice high; inquisitive.
The other low; reassuring.
Time seemingly stands still, the breeze, gentle,
the sun dappled and dancing beneath his feet -
and when a young man, closes his eyes, he remembers
sunflowers, swallows silhouetted against the sun,
soft flannel, a tree-lined sanctuary, and the feel of his father's hand.
by Margaret Bednar, August 23, 2020
This is linked with the challenge "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #33 - Swallow screams for dinner" and "Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #34"
The phrase "swallow screams for dinner" is a line from C. Sandlin's poem "Telling Stories" Her amazing poem can be found HERE.