Stilling her with a sight so fair,
In weaving threads of grace,
Your blue cream twists lace the air.
Flitting spins, danced fast pace,
Low swooping over peat brown waters,
Swallow to catch the river hatch.
The Singing of your labour sought a
Quiet in her whole, unmatched
By any other living beat,
You are her landing, bird without feet.
