May Day dawns cold and breezy, with sullen grey clouds promising rain. Hope seems very far away. But then, a distant dark streak scythes through the skies over the Avalon Marshes, stiff-winged, direct and determined. A single swift, my first of the year.
As I do every spring, I silently recite the words of the poet Ted Hughes: “They’ve made it again, which means the globe’s still working … ”
