Swans At Night
On the wildest night of the year’s beginning,
the park’s a moor, the pond a heaving ocean.
Like hailstones, stars soar past our heads;
the trees are stripped by the shrieking gale.
My eyes stream and my face feels stretched
and I worry about tomorrow. Until,
three areas of wavering light. ‘The swans,’
you say. But it’s dark. I have my doubts.
But the three vague shapes begin to gleam:
It’s them on the bridge, with their necks
folded back and heads half-buried in wings.
Sleeping swans as still as stones, and white
as falling snow. We grow closer.
a head rears up; perfect feathers ruffle.
We slip by into the wind. Beyond the trees
the orange lights wait, and cars are everywhere.
Tonight we’ll sleep as the fireplace howls
and the dead come drifting by again. But
in the light we’ll feed the swans, see them glide,
so white with grace, like galleons bearing gifts.