Each year the swallows return 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, filled with foxgloves and ferns.
One evening I walked up to the lane from our house. Crouching down in the road, I waited and soon enough they came back.
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 experience.
The memory has stayed with me. It’s been turning over in the back of my mind for a while now.
A little while ago I sat down with my sketchbook and drew out a design for a new garden sculpture.
I imagine the swallows will be made from cast bronze, aged to a verdigris finish with polished highlights.
I hope I get to make this one.
