The Swans

swans gather before the storm
the pitch of grace forlorn
they swim this way alone

a white ghost ship sails here
they honk their sound to clear
the way for the silken tide

their moonlit water wings
seem to glide shimmering
an eerie way through the calm

they bob their dark heads soon
knowingly, gathering the moon
in their clear eyes reflected

heat hangs lucid in the air
hovering on each dancing pair
they slice their way through

effortless without any fuss
this grace they bestow on us
the passing of ages flown

@ Vickie Johnstone