Kathleen Jamie

In September countless sand and house-martins jazz above the river, taking insects from the surface, from the air, thousands of birds kissing the river farewell. They creak, a sound like the air rubbing against itself. Summer is everything they know; they're preparing themselves, sensing in the shortening days a door they must dash through before it shuts.

When we were young, we were told that poetry is about voice, about finding a voice and speaking with this voice, but the older I get I think it__ not about voice, it__ about listening and the art of listening, listening with attention. I don__ just mean with the ear; bringing the quality of attention to the world. The writers I like best are those who attend.

We know we are a species obsessed with itself and its own past and origins. We know we are capable of removing from the sanctuary of the earth shards and fragments, and gently placing them in museums. Great museums in great cities__he hallmarks of civilisation.

There was a time__ntil very recently in the scheme of things__hen there were no wild animals, because every animal was wild; and humans were few. Animals, and animal presence over us and around us. Over every horizon, animals. Their skins clothing our skins, their fats in our lamps, their bladders to carry water, meat when we could get it.