Westward

Westward
in the winter mist
unwavering
wing-beat rhythm
thrusting
purposeful
powerful
pale creatures
of a pale world,
outstretched
magnificence
reshaped
from the haughty elegance
of arched necks
and curved wing-folds
white
on a summer’s placid lake.

On a cold foggy morning in Dorset, England, in January, 1992, I heard the distinctive wingbeats of swans approaching. Three of them passed by just to the north of me, giving me a very brief view before they merged back into the mist.
What a wonderful privilege to delight in God’s Creation!

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.