When I see a fluffy feather drift on high.
I think of spring days gone bye.

It's not my memories I hold.
It is a story my mother told.

As a child she spent many entertainment hours.
By choosing feathers to drop from lofty tours.

From the chicken coup to the cable end window in the barn.
To create this childhood yarn.

The game was to catch the swallow's eye.
As the fluffy feathers floated by.

The breezes from the stream carried them aloft.
Above the barn above the croft.

The swallows would catch them in flight.
To make the lining of their nest just right.

The barn no longer stands.
The swallow have to make other plans.

But I can see her in that window on high.
Watching the swallows fly.