Pamela Coren
Swans Over
Walking the water meadows
I saw
three swans flying broad formation
over town: flimsy bombers
gleaming in February light.
People should have crouched under tables,
scanned their flight, counting seconds.
But they carried, just,
enormous beauty
heavy in the feathered belly.
And nothing fell, but floated,
yellow bugle notes, gods’ stories,
slow flap of horizons, snake’s-ease.
And that interlay of down that warms
butted against the brown river, homely.
Page(s) 43
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