SWAN SONG

The Pen hung back

Holding station against the flow

Watching the Cob crossing, observing

Its white wings folded in tight

Its long neck bulging, muddied

Its eyes glazed over

In the hallway there is a bevelled mirror, fine iron fretwork

Of Don Juan roses, thorns sharp, and stalks wrought into hearts

The man reflected there, absently ties a tie, combs his hair and

Notes the heavy sacking under his eyes; the years passed quickly

The years passed quickly, crow’s feet and laughter lines cut deep

For the woman reflected there, in the hallway, suitcases at her side

She had held on for so long to the memory of her wedding day

The illusion that she had ever captured the heart of her Don Juan

The Pen pushed on now

Riding the current downstream

Wary of the Cob returning, observing

Her white wings catching the breeze

Her long neck extended, gliding 

Her eyes wide, free

 It was the Summer of Love when our two lovers first met

Though at three and two years of age, not a concept they knew

By nine and eight, they were inseparable, unlike their respective parents

By their teenage years, the only friends they had were each other

The only friends they had were each other, they were married quickly

But the pregnancy did not last, and she was sad and he was angry

It was an accident, the first time she fell; she tripped on the stair carpet

So clumsy, gawky, but cute, he would say, and shower her with flowers

                        The Pen landed on the bank

                        The river still in sight, flying fast

                        Would it bring the Cob, observing

                        Her white wings furled beneath

                        Her feet awkward, waddling

                        Her eyes furtive, scared

She had left him before, she had found refuge, and she had found safety

On the mend, as the kind counsellor with the Edinburgh lilt reassured

She had met someone new, kind, gentle eyes, or so she thought

Maybe these men saw something in her; a desperation to be loved

A desperation to be loved; it had always been so, and the only succour

The only person who understood, who knew her, who loved her

Was a three year old boy, who had never grown up into a man; and so

She had left the fishing wire on the riverbank, and now his throat swelled

                        The Pen swept into the sky

                        One more arc above the stricken

                        Cob, his breathing heavy, observing

Its white wings folded in tight

Its long neck bulging, muddied

Its eyes glazed over

(C) Trevor Maynard 2015