The Swan
She is dreaming but dreaming
Of nothing, which is the dream
Sustaining her on
a still
Piece of nothing. Her desire
Is not distorted
down there
In its inverse easeful life
Nor darkened. It
looks up still
With the same sharp eye as she
Looks down. She lowers
the shaft
Of her neck into the wide
Waking water, to
empty
Her thought, then lets the air take
More of the shade
from her wings,
Left whiter still than they were.
* * *
If this is dying,
to slide
Above ourselves on the grey
Stream rich with
lilies and reeds
Without expense of effort,
’More than ever
seems it rich’.
But see below how in one
After the other she
must
Take a fistful of water
In her black foot
to go on
Slowly against the current.
* * *
Another current wants
her,
The breeze and the scumbled clouds.
She reaches out
her lightning,
She takes them into her arms.
John Gibbens
