Against a sky that’s coloured like a child’s balloon,
The black swan fly above our big lagoon.
I hear them fluting, sailing in the reeds,
And always for a while my gloom recedes.
Each year they come and nest and raise their young.
Perhaps when dark men hunted round the shore
The swans were sailing, calm and free and sang
Their fluting notes, and more…
I wonder, if beneath the reeds and mud and clay,
The bones of long dead creatures buried lie.
No-one will ever really know.
They wait there as the centuries roll by.
Meanwhile, I watch the swans,
And my heart sings
To hear the clap on water of their wings.
Isabel Marion Alison Cox
From Longford to Bishopsbourne one passes the wonderful lagoons. The larger one shared by Woodstock and Springbanks. To see the swans on the water, or with their young on the ‘shore’. To think of Camelot, Arthur and the lake. To have flown kites over the dry lagoon bed, and to have made the long march of retrieval. To have camped, and watched them dipping in the twiight’s weakening airs. To hear the chant of the frog at dawn. To see the Great Western Tiers to the south and to the west. The Liffey, across the Norfolk Plains. Ben Lomond in the east. “To hear the clap on water ... of their wings”. I can.
[‘Swan Song’ is a second offering from Alison, our dear remembered friend - Garry.]