A swan rising from the sparkling morning lake,
Mighty wings pounding the crystal shore,
A beacon of hope in the darkness perhaps –
Who could ask for anything more?
I care not for what hope to others the swan brings,
As it rises, leaving feathers on the water,
For I can hear that swan distantly as she begins to sing.
Today’s poem is longer than Friday’s – I apologise for that cheap posting, but I was finding it very difficult to write then, and couldn’t find anything in my file I wanted to publish. But I like this one. It combines two pieces of folklore about swans, in case you did not pick up on them – firstly, that before dying the swan sings beautifully, just once, and secondly, that in the event of their life-partner’s death, some swans commit suicide. Recently one of a pair of swans in Regent’s Park, London, was killed, and the other was taken into special care to ensure that it remained healthy. Lovely animals, swans.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic