Swan Song (part of Mother’s Day Poem)

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.