The Nightingale and the Swan
Colours bounce in euphoric ecstasy
and another day is birthed, in melody,
as the dawn brings forth emerald reflection,
the sun playing on the looms of nature's glee
with the nightingale's whistle in a harmony.
Dull on it's perch,
determined in his search
for a jewel in creation's crown,
a partner for his song to emerge,
he prepares to lurch.
He spots her on a lake,
a white rose, a snowflake,
drifting on crystal serene,
a beautiful image to make,
her beauty in its surroundings partake.
This fragile goddess
with his best song he tries to caress
and the brooding bud,
a stunning glory ageless,
unfolds to his tune, guileless.
Yet when she tries,
her voice defies,
and he knows she will not sing.
A sudden sorrow in her eyes,
she bows her head and sighs.
But song, his voice like a lyre,
her beauty, her eyes of sapphire
make for a perfect match:
all creation they admire
together compensating for flaws like ice and fire.
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