Each year the swallows returned to the farm. They nest in the old milking parlour, sometimes flying into the Forge looking for new places to set up home.
On late summer evenings, they gather in the lane above the farm, Cork screwing and skimming over the tarmac hunting for insects.
The hedgerows on either side are old and tall, full of fox gloves, ferns and grasses.
One evening I left our house and walked up to the lane. Crouching down in the road, I waited and soon enough they came back, ignoring me completely.
They flew towards me, wings almost touching the ground. They sped past, so close that I could hear the click of their wings and feel the wind of their passing.
They flipped up over the hedge and dived back down, their movements like Chinese calligraphy.
It was a fantastic thing to experience.
The memory has stayed with me. It’s been turning over in the back of my mind for a while now.
A few evenings ago, I sat down with my sketchbook and drew out a design for a new gardener sculpture.
I imagine the swallows will be made from cast bronze, aged to a verdigris finish with polished edges.
I hope I get to make this one.