As summer sinks into its last sighs of September
we rise, at dusk, from hawthorn and bramble,
leave Woods Mill, and soar over chalk cliffs
through scents of gorse and sea salt.

Folding maps into our feathers, young and old, we go.
Some were born in a thorny cradle just three months ago.
We grow with the knowledge that our home will flow,
it’s a certainty sewn through us – we will come, and we will go.

I stand at the top of the lane,
a lucky pebble in my pocket.

“Fly soft, fly far – bring our stories home.”

We fly seven hundred kilometres, non-stop,

over green fields and spines of stone

until the Pyrenees cut into the sky,

and call those of us left to a shady rest.



We fuel ourselves on La Janda’s edges,
seize sleep in scrub; days stretch into weeks.

When the moon murmurs time, we leave

in one long, bright breath – south across the sea.

I crunch through autumn,
moving toward winter’s whisper.

            “Fly soft, fly far – bring our stories home.”

Thirty days since your chalky cliffs,
Niger summons us to our seasonal stillness.
We land, untangle the stars from our feathers,
and surrender to a hot, slow winter.

In our first weeks, recent rain glistens,
flooded grass glows, and we splash
in fresh, green pools of revival,
feasting on bright seeds.

Months of dry become drought.
Acacia trees, prickly protectors, hold our sleep.
Sun-slowed, we forage rivers and farms
Then snooze the hot noon away; wake, feed, and repeat.

I sing reminders, “two turtle doves,”
nudging nostalgia in those who remember.
           
            “Fly soft, fly far – bring our stories home.”

In March, our long stillness breaks,
night after night, we stitch north - our shadows, sharp.
Sandstorms snarl and snatch - the Sahara, a treacherous test.
Some vanish, or turn back. We twist daylight into quick rests.

In olive hush, a few weeks of breath.

Then we glide over patchwork fields,

weaving rivers, scattered rooftops, pale roads,

and cross the Channel, approaching home.

I, too, feel the heat of legacy
hot in my chest.

“Fly soft, fly far – bring our stories home.”

In late April, we reunite with honeysuckle
- gather, shape, build our twiggy base.
By May, the first clutches are laid.
We take turns with the eggs, sit for fifteen days.

Wildflower seeds nourish new hungry mouths.
Five nights pass; fresh eyes open.
Ten more turn; wings test the air.
We gather, shape, build, share.

I walk along the hedgerow and hum a hazy dream.
            The moon shines surely, lending a beam.

            “Fly soft, fly far – bring our stories home.”

Did you hear us arrive? We are freedom.
We’ve seen humans bury stories under oceans.
Maybe our song is one of your missing pins,
etched in the memory of a distant kin.

We have the shape of the sky stitched under our wings.
We never get lost, never fall out of beat.
Rapid flap, short glide. We move weather.
Rapid flap, short glide. We transpose time.

Our navigation is ancient and powerful, but we have frayed.
We are the memory that keeps the future from forgetting.
Ask your elders how our migration once darkened these skies,
now we are so few, you barely hear us purr goodbye.

Fields thin.
Hedges trim.
We return.
Will you save a place for us?

I leave a wild corner,
a shallow dish of water,
scattered seeds,
space to breathe

“Fly soft, fly far – bring our stories home.”

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