THE SWAN

a poem by Christine Anne Shaw, UK

Out of the mists of early dawn that veil the river's sleepy flow,
which roll across the dew-wet fields, to linger where the hedgerows grow.
In waters spiked with broken reeds, float lily leaves, small plate-shaped boats,
a lonesome swan dips down to feed, dressed in a snow-white downy coat.

Bright sun breaks through, it glows rich gold, the mute glides on the crystalline,
then stands in shallows near the bank, surveying all that he deems fine.
His plummage shapes into a fan, he preens himself, full stretches wings.
He flaps the surface, whips up drops of crystal water which he flings

into the air with mighty force, dispersing spray caught in the light.
Like splintered glass, ten thousand shards of diamonds glinting in full flight,
which sparkle as they greet the sun. Ten seconds pass, the show is done.
The gems rain down and all are lost, beneath the flow, each precious one.

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