In the white of the winter sun
Her pure feather's deftly shine;
And like finely sharpened knives
They weave and carve the sky divine.
Beneath them rests a wise heart
And fibrous muscles... tender yet taught,
That twist and curl in a gentle rotation.
Pivoted upon the river she turns tense,
and begins her slow surge forward.
She is prepared and ready for the fight,
Her weight balancing as she glides,
She stretches herself out,
As she raises herself up for flight.
While there, beneath her feet,
The finality of those iced river fingers,
Now descend scratching the air
Failing, to keep their hold,
Of this oh so beautiful and fragile soul.
So there she goes,
she floats above it all,
Iridescent and totally free,
Far from the rough tough
Gnarled shanks of stone,
That were ploughed brutally down,
By the giant’s heavy shoes.
And while the flaming flutes,
Of times brutal arrows,
Bounce off her, she sighs
With a glorious glint
Resting in her testing eyes.
So damned defiant she rises!
So strong and bloody proud!
So she should...
For she is my beloved swan,
And I love her intimately.