I’ve never lived under swifts before.  Last summer they tilted up Ludlow’s steep hills, riding the warm air and skimming the garden.  Then they soared back over the eaves of the Victorian terraces.  Again and again, in screaming, flaring groups.  And then at the end of July they were gone. I wrote a poem about them, which played in my head for weeks after they’d started back to Africa. … Continue reading Swifts, a poem, a handmade book