The geese are in the skies tonight,
flying past in V by faithful V.
Where does their arrow aim its flight;
what’s in the summer sun they seek?

Still, eighty seasons on the wing
might not deliver warmer climes.
My, what I’d miss if I knew Spring
then couldn’t fly another mile.

Shimmering horizon, out of range. High winds
buffet wings while the world whirls beneath:
like an ant on a marble, racing his limbs
or a tack in a tyre running flat underneath.