I passed a shop called Envy on my way to the river; it’s a hairdressing salon. I launched my kayak pondering on the possibilities of naming other places in the high street named after the seven deadly sins; the bank might have been called the National Avarice, but it turned into a café which might have been called Gluttony and now it’s now closed. Perhaps I’ll open a mattress shop called Sloth.
As I paddled on I noticed a hang-glider high above; God knows where the pilot took off in Norfolk. It was manoeuvring at about 1,000 feet, circling silently, gaining height in a thermal. I wondered what the river looked like from up there, and whether my brave green craft was visible.
I felt a small pang of envy for this flying creature, who was no doubt experiencing a sense of exaltation thrillingly mixed with fear. I know that height is your margin of safety in flight, but it never felt like that the few times I rode pillion on a microlight.
And then in an instant there was a halo before me: a perfect circle on the water a few yards ahead. I saw the cause half a second later: a swift, heedless of safety margins, had come fizzing down at high speed to take a quick drink – the quickest drink possible for a self-powered living thing — at zero feet before rising sharply to hawk for flying insects again.
It was then, under my admiring gaze, that the swift performed one of those handbrake turns they specialise in and made a high-speed run three feet above the surface of the river –straight back towards me. For moment I saw him head-on, full eye-contact with that enigmatic face and a lightning-quick view of a pair of impossibly slim wings: twin blades shearing the air, the bird showing an easy mastery of his chosen fluid medium that I and the hang-glider pilot could only admire… and envy.
Wonderfully written. Lightened my rather painful morning so much. Thank you.
Well, that utterly captured the speed and aeronautical grace. Very powerful when coupled with the split second of matched gaze. Thank you! I’m enjoying our swallows – catch it while you can!
Here’s your excellent article in the style of Shakespeare – using AI
Upon my path, a shop did catch mine eye,
Envy its name, a hairdressing abode.
‘Twas ironic, for sins the name did imply,
Yet scissors and combs were its humble load.
The bank, once called National Avarice,
Transformed into a cafe of Gluttony,
But now ’tis closed, a fate that doth suffice,
Perhaps a sign of excess’ guarantee.
A notion stirred within my pensive mind,
To name a mattress shop ‘Sloth’ I did dream,
For indolence and ease it seemed assigned,
In lethargy, a slumberer’s esteem.
As I embarked upon my kayak’s glide,
Mine eyes beheld a glider in the sky,
From whence it soared, God only doth decide,
In Norfolk’s realm, its takeoff did defy.
At thousand feet, it circled gracefully,
Ascending on the thermals’ gentle lift,
Oft wondered I how river’s sight would be,
And if my green craft did its gaze uplift.
Envy did grip me for that winged soul,
A sense of exaltation mixed with fear,
The safety margin’s height doth make it whole,
Yet riding pillion, such feelings not near.
But swift did steal my sight with sudden glee,
Descending swiftly for a fleeting sip,
At water’s edge, its recklessness to see,
Then soaring high to hunt the airborne nip.
In that brief moment, swift turned ’round in haste,
Three feet above the river’s shimmering grace,
Our eyes did meet, its visage interlaced,
Slim wings, like blades, did navigate with grace.
Mastery displayed, the bird did astound,
A fluid dance through air, in pure delight,
Both hang-glider and I, in awe were bound,
Brilliant. Thank you so much for sharing that with us. In your inimitable style.
What an exhilarating experience.
I am just finishing “The Meaning of Birds” so I am in full flight appreciation mode.
Thanks for these in between snippets.
Simon, I have always wondered how man discovered that swifts spend most of their lives on the wing.
PS. AI will never be able to compete with Shakespeare
I very much appreciate you short “stories”; they always lift my spirits even on high-spirit days ! Thank you, Simon.
Simon, your poetic blog echoes and adds to Charles Foster’s beautiful book on swifts, published
by Little Toller books. Swifts are, to misuse a word, incredible. I knew a Frenchman who hand-reared one: it would come down for food when he whistled..
Aghh… I have the picture perfectly in my minds eye – what a glorious moment – nothing can beat the thrill, purity and beauty of nature !
Thank you, Simon for encouraging so many replies,