You once said

that there were swans on the line,

driting in from subservient shores,

arcing in a ring of pearls.

 

Blood orange orb deflecting now

the attention someplace else.

We sat languidly, in placid mood;

I picked a fight with silence,

let the stone drop in the shallow lake

and waited for the star to burn up

in a crumpled far horizon.

But I only heard a trudging tread,

that of the skipper leading his dogs

to rest in the kennels that ran

perpendicular to the peeling verandah.

 

I would have run inside, told everyone, then,

but I couldn't leave until our time

was done.

Those words I spoke that morning still

fresh and burning within, as night

drew on.  And now I see the feathers,

then white, now hidden, stuck

in silt left by a restless tide.