A Rite of Spring


Spring beckons, summoning another threat
for George the Swan. Its sailing on the lake,
beside his island, nonchalantly yet
the cob discerns a purpose. It will take
his nesting ground! At once, the rage arrives
to swell the knob upon his noble beak
and arch his winter wings. Advance! He strives
towards the enemy. Its silver-sleek
but whitening slightly. As he nears, it snorts,
performs a well-learned bow. He glares, gives chase
across the water, set on combat sports,
pursues for hours and hours at rampant pace,
until the cygnet, terrified, has gone
has fled the nest, cast out. His eldest son.

Felicity Teague

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Felicity Teague   would be pleased to hear them