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The swallows on the TV aerial

face west and watch

the fellsides undulate

like dunes in the dusk.

They gather on the telephone wire.

Yesterday, fifty.

Today more than double that.

Quick clouds skim purple

off the fells.

These are the facts

I’m faxing down my line.

Slow flying jets under

a low lying sky.

They fly south

over armies assembled in the dust,

appear on radar screens

the shape of cities,

and disperse

like grains of sand in a storm.

from Hole in the WallFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2002 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Tom Pickard

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