Terry Jones
Five White Swans
I saw a flock of five white swans glide by.
The air was sharp and the sun reflected the beat of each wing.
Standing with the congregation, I watched as others did,
While the speaker talked of symbols: of the ‘fine, white linen’,
And as he did so, those swans, the morning sun and those
words coalesced somehow.
‘Fine, white linen’.
Is there a oneness,
Something less tangible than sense?
Feelings, image, words;
A phrase casually overheard?
Meanwhile, curtains stayed closed
And a man with a bruised heart
Could not face that crispness,
Did not see the five swans,
Lay on rumpled sheets.
For him there was another reality.
His heart was not uplifted,
his soul did not soar.
And those great wings beat on
With strength and purpose
And passed him by.
Page(s) 12
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