Swallows At Zimbabwe

Great Zimbabwe in the sun, Far away Dreams all day Of his riddles solved of none, Where just now the swallows muster, Cling and cluster, Chestnut breasts and cloven tails, On the wires and on the rails, Soon to fly Straight and high, Following still the airy blue Roads they knew Centuries ere Zimbabwe grew Under those dead builders’ hands, Over bush and swamp and range, Lake and jungle lost and strange, Lone and lion-coloured lands Of sun and sands. So they fly Straight and high, Far and fast, Till at last Looking out beneath the thatch On the church, the elms, the green, Building hedgerow, cressy brook, Springing wheat and fresh turned loam - All the quiet old serene English scene, Somebody may chance to catch A sudden flash of wings and cry; “Look - Look - The swallows have come home!”