The Returning Swallow.
By Randall Stephen Hall.
Update 25.3.26 3rd draft
Our northern Irish swallows
Follow their own way.
They stretch their wings
To overwinter in South Africa.
Leaderless and without a rudder
They plough the blue skies of Ulster.
To go where they never say never.
Below the equator.
A loving aviator, beyond politics.
In late April they begin to arrive
Threading our skies to Mother Africa.
They have no compass
While we have little direction.
For some of us it is harder
To know where home is.
Pushed here, long ago
Amongst these Irish hills.
For profit.
Migrants all, the swallow has no knowledge
Or use for needless baggage
Like, who is and who isn’t
African, Irish or just a Brit.
They fly above our objectives.
They do not reject or are subjective
To the Irish speaker or the Brythonic spittle.
For they look down on us from on high.
And see no borders or relevant colours
As a flag is merely material moving.
Observe the swallows
See how they fly
And how they mate for life, mate.
For their trouble and their strife
Wedded to the journey, from here to there.
Rather than the welcome
The returning swallow receives each year
Above our streets, from the Starling.
So the swallow builds a nest
In the full knowledge
That he may rest here, unhindered
And his neighbour will not throw stones
Or disturb these calm families
That nature has gifted us.
The result of which is ongoing peace
Year on year.
Could we not fly Like the swallow?
Could we not work that miracle?
Isn’t it a queer thing
That we’ve never created
A political party of the Swallow.
With two wings, endurance and vision.
Able to fly off the ground
And knowing no boundaries.
But, stranger still, things can change
Over and above the clichéd
And the predictable.
All our ships are sinking
Whereas the swallow
Will always fly
Higher than any flag.
www.randallstephenhallsongs.
A northern Irish artist
AKA. Dangerous Banana
By Randall Stephen Hall.
Update 25.3.26 3rd draft
Our northern Irish swallows
Follow their own way.
They stretch their wings
To overwinter in South Africa.
Leaderless and without a rudder
They plough the blue skies of Ulster.
To go where they never say never.
Below the equator.
A loving aviator, beyond politics.
In late April they begin to arrive
Threading our skies to Mother Africa.
They have no compass
While we have little direction.
For some of us it is harder
To know where home is.
Pushed here, long ago
Amongst these Irish hills.
For profit.
Migrants all, the swallow has no knowledge
Or use for needless baggage
Like, who is and who isn’t
African, Irish or just a Brit.
They fly above our objectives.
They do not reject or are subjective
To the Irish speaker or the Brythonic spittle.
For they look down on us from on high.
And see no borders or relevant colours
As a flag is merely material moving.
Observe the swallows
See how they fly
And how they mate for life, mate.
For their trouble and their strife
Wedded to the journey, from here to there.
Rather than the welcome
The returning swallow receives each year
Above our streets, from the Starling.
So the swallow builds a nest
In the full knowledge
That he may rest here, unhindered
And his neighbour will not throw stones
Or disturb these calm families
That nature has gifted us.
The result of which is ongoing peace
Year on year.
Could we not fly Like the swallow?
Could we not work that miracle?
Isn’t it a queer thing
That we’ve never created
A political party of the Swallow.
With two wings, endurance and vision.
Able to fly off the ground
And knowing no boundaries.
But, stranger still, things can change
Over and above the clichéd
And the predictable.
All our ships are sinking
Whereas the swallow
Will always fly
Higher than any flag.
www.randallstephenhallsongs.
A northern Irish artist
AKA. Dangerous Banana
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