Swanuary




One year, the local cygnets took their leave
from Lower Lake before December’s end.
And neither parent seemed inclined to grieve;
each turned towards the other with the bend

of elongated neck we’d come to know
as signalling seduction. Something stirs
as soon as all the cygnets start to show
a little white, a brisk wind whips the firs –

and on the afternoon of that New Year,
the breeding pair went walking through the grass.
George took the lead, although it wasn’t clear
he had a route as such. They came to pass

beside the leisure centre’s doorway – stopped
immediately, stared at what they saw:
reflections in the glass, two forms, uncropped.
Who were these beauties, both without a flaw?

The light was fading; time to head for bed,
so back they trundled, past the wintry trees,
with George, again, a little way ahead.
Their own white feathers rippled in the breeze.


Felicity Teague


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