They invade the garden sky-space,
stuttering, swooping, soaring overhead.
Perpetually aloft, on the wing,
trimmed, sleek, trying to out-fly
each other, to dive-bomb unsuspecting
insects, to surprise us with their
incredible, toppling manoeuvres
and sabre-slicing of tree-tops.
Regrouping again, the patrol performs a
whip-stinging, high-decibel MiG attack
then sweeps off to the horizon,
fly re-fuelled in mid-air.
Disturbers of the peace, dazzlers,
separators of sky, fork-tailed magicians
leaving behind a trail of breathlessness.
Swifts, gracing the air in June