swallows

I perhaps should have suspected

as we watched swallows gather

in punctuated groups on high-wire lines

that this would be an end

I noted how they were crotchets on a stave

you rejected the cliché

but at that moment

as if to save me

from an open window a nocturne played

and became the cooling breath

of that September evening

finding its way to an imperfect cadence

classic pianissimo

the music dying

into an uproarious silence

between us

and your attention drifted

to a purple horizon

where the moon was climbing -

a cream minim

floating in ink

my hand found your shoulder

and thoughtless fingers

played the coarse seam

of your cotton white blouse

creeping from soft nape

to the shrug at the joint

I sensed your tension

and the chilling breeze

and now you are no longer here

to empty my thoughts

and I swallow the lyrics I wish I had sung