Cathedral Swans

 

 

Music of water, virgin white notes

of a dark river's stave.

 

Mute swans drift before a cathedral’s

ancient shadow.

 

Magnetised they slope towards

a bridge scented with blood.

 

I watch them nestle in shade

where once boy soldiers hid

 

barrels of pitch, stood on burning

ramparts, sharp-ended by fear.

 

Now, red ivy clusters a western wall.

White-pot, buttermilk, rickles

 

of stone hide musket shot –

the discordant seals

 

of a long forgotten war 

submerged in the cloudy silt.

 

Memory takes flight;

a door-lock springs.

 

The swans return to this faithful city’s

evening promenade,

 

hang in the sky like a sweet

angel’s trumpet - 

 

lost lamentations, a tasselled

coif of cloud.

 

When battlefields lie fallow 

cathedral bells will chime.

 

When ghosts re-appear

mute swans will sing.