This Autumn, George alone is teaching flight;
the children’s mother, Zelda, died in June.
The six-month cygnets group in amber light;
perhaps another lesson might be soon?
I’m always anxious at this time of year,
as Flying Season sometimes heralds death
by powerlines or trees. The slightest veer,
a broken neck and rattling final breath.
Yet “Come!” George snorts, and all extend their wings
while raising heads and chests above the lake,
their strong feet paddling; in a flash of rings
they run, ascend the mellow air and make
a fleeting V before the swift descent,
all safe, for now, and cheeping-ly content.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Felicity
Teague would be pleased to hear them.