by Diane Fahey
There, beyond the road's end: a hundred or so
black stones forming an archipelago
on the wide bowl of the estuary —
some with looped necks; all of them still — unfazed by
the arc of greenish scales the wind slides, as though
an afterthought, over jewelled grey.
Trapped in the heart's tunnelled cliffs, or thirst-struck
as it turns to a dry well, remember this:
swans floating with pristine calm on dark
waters lit by satin cloud; their bodies —
wing-clasped mounds of cindery leaves — ballasting
the search; and, blind to the riddles of dusk
and autumn, their red unhuman eyes reading
the flow's intimate text; their red beaks feeding.
Last updated January 14, 2019