As five swans, together, lift their weight,
With no little effort, toward the sky,
My eye, yet falls, admiring, nearer ground,
Where, on a branch that overhangs the lake,
Not starting at the egret’s cry,
She, unlocking not a sound,
Who hunting over-long would drown,
Reaches out her drenchèd wings to dry.
A grebe, unseen, submerged, passes near-by,
And on the shore mill pheasants, sheep and rabbits,
But clothed in nature’s charcoal-aged habit,
She busies not herself, but sits to dry.
And so a long in-breath becomes a sigh,
Cutting through all wandering, worried thoughts,
Just to watch her perch upon the over-hanging stalk,
And reach out her drenchèd wings, to dry.
Image: Cormorant by Sonja Molina, Instagram @sonlune
There’s something so real
and present and
the thing that counteracts
a life of imaginings,
In the jagged sharpness of
crumpled and torn
an old shell rusted to
delicacy and overgrown,
refreshed by every rain,
a shelter of history,
a world for countless lives,
eating under tyres and swimming
in oil stained puddles,
ripening in rainbow decay.