FRIDAY FEELINGS

The Dead Swan

And so it has come to this, my beloved,

You of that ancient tribe of nonchalance and poise,

Prized, mythologized,

You from whom the lightning force of life has fled,

Or rather, you who abandoned ship and

Set adrift your pillowed body of ragged plumage,

That curved neck of yours which bowed

And wooed your mate in love-knots,

Flaccid now, bobbing in the scum of the bay,

Where all the lazy sailboats snooze,

Wind-gauge spinning on the tinkling masts.

They say the Mute Swan mates for life,

Honeymoons, even; when widowed, dies from heartbreak.

Mute you are not, we are told, chatterboxes, even,

When coaching your downy cygnets.

Pen or cob, beloved of the Goddess of Love,

Did you plummet from a billowing cloud

In despair, or starve alone in noble silence,

Unbeknown to your elegant friends?

You are not like us, who fuss about our image on life's stage;

So if it's true you sing a swan-song as you die,
For whom would you have sung it, and why?