At evening, sitting on this terrace, <br />When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara <br />Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ... <br /> <br />When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing <br />Brown hills surrounding ... <br /> <br />When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio <br />A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, <br />Against the current of obscure Arno ... <br /> <br />Look up, and you see things flying <br />Between the day and the night; <br />Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together. <br /> <br />A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches <br />Where light pushes through; <br />A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. <br />A dip to the water. <br /> <br />And you think: <br />'The swallows are flying so late!' <br /> <br />Swallows? <br /> <br />Dark air-life looping <br />Yet missing the pure loop ... <br />A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight <br />And serrated wings against the sky, <br />Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light, <br />And falling back. <br /> <br />Never swallows! <br />Bats! <br />The swallows are gone. <br /> <br />At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats <br />By the Ponte Vecchio ... <br />Changing guard. <br /> <br />Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp <br />As the bats swoop overhead! <br />Flying madly. <br /> <br />Pipistrello! <br />Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. <br />Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive; <br /> <br />Wings like bits of umbrella. <br /> <br />Bats! <br /> <br />Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep; <br />And disgustingly upside down. <br /> <br />Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags <br />And grinning in their sleep. <br />Bats! <br /> <br />Not for me!<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bat/
