Swifts, with sickle wings
Cut rustling sheaves of summer
From the evening air
Cakes and ale for love.
But when the party's over
— good bread of friendship.
Here lies an actor
Once played to the gallery,
Now rests in the pit.
Time accelerates,
Like water whirled in spirals
Into the wastepipe.
The wake unravels
Spinning the island away
Under banks of cloud.
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 2009–2021. All rights reserved.
In the last line I have changed Hanks to Banks