The cygnets slowly flow against the edge
Of bulrushes and thunder clouds, thinning
The darkened moods with hope. This narrow ledge
I reflect upon. My thoughts are spinning,
Pirouetting, ballet-Odettes dancing
Just beyond the reach of the outstretched mind.
Such loveliness of sight, seven swanlings
Swimming between cob and pen. Yes, mankind
Would do well to swim together: defined
Harmony. Disappears. Seven become
Four grey graces turning white. Unrefined
Foresight. Impurities–the swan shrinks from.
The parents, sensing weakness in some young,
Swiftly neck them to keep the species strong.
*Thanks mother, for not being a swan.