Saturday, 11 February 2012

Where do all the old swans go?

Where do all the old Swans go?

Today i saw a dying swan,
leaning tattered against a railing,
it seemed to fall like a stone
pushing off , alone, into the water;
Yellow encrusted feathers,
no longer sleek upon its back.
It swam in circles, one leg cocked,
as if encircling a missing mate,
as i lent upon an unopened gate;
The canal ebbed ever onward,
no longer choked with winter moss,
ceaselessly drifting along,
a timeless reminder of passing loss;
Was it only yesterday i saw you fly?
two bye two into that sun ravaged sky.
You seemed replete,
with wings that never missed a beat,
and always the promise of another spring,
another cycle of warm remembrance,
a feathered plume of song and dance;
Now that swan swims alone,
waiting upon times endless eddy's,
caught in a lonesome rift,
in a stream that seems never to shift;
The old gate opened,
a rusty testament to natures ceaseless pursuit.
The crooked neck keeled over,
resting a head upon the water,
unable to direct the motion any longer.
The languid flow, flotsam to a distant shore,
feathers preened nevermore;
As i closed the gate,
a head rose in defiance,
wings spread­eagled, echoes of a former glory,
a retort of undeniable magnificence;
Where do all the old Swans go?
Yellow, ragged and foul,
at night, you can hear the silence,
and the call of the owl.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Artwork by Carola E. Thiele