2 THE LONE SWALLOWS 



the cave under the precipice at the head- 

 land's snout, or that love for its protection 

 after the wearying journey was new-born 

 in their hearts. One cannot say; but the 

 pair remained there. 



Days of yellow sunshine and skies blue 

 as their wings greeted them. Over the 

 wave crests and the foamed troughs they 

 sped, singing and twittering as they flew. 

 Kestrel hawks with earth-red pinions hung 

 over the slopes of the cliffs, searching with 

 keen eyes for mouse or finch, but the swallows 

 heeded not. Wheatears passed all day 

 among the rabbit burrows and the curled 

 cast feathers of the gulls, chiffchaffs iterated 

 their little joy in singsong melody, shags 

 squatted on the rocks below, preening metal- 

 green plumage and ejecting plentiful fish- 

 bones. The wanderer on the sheep-track, 

 passing every day, joyed in the effortless 

 thrust of those dark wings, the chestnut 

 stain on the throat, the delicate fork of the 

 tail. Winter was ended, and the blackthorn 



