A genuine, bona fide duck
would not have looked at swans
and sighed "beautiful"
would she?
A swan to her is a distended
pale and mournful creature,
far from the cheerful, broody,
stubbornly protective, quacking world,
the farmyard pond and warm shed.
Mother duck loved
but she did not understand
that my place was beyond
her known horizons:
tragic and haunted but fated in the end
to love what I must become.
YOU ARE READING
Sweeping Winds and Rainbow Beginnings
PoetryThese are a few of my poems. I would prefer to take my time and try to sort the better ones out from the rubbish so it might take me a while to collect. I hope you can stop by and enjoy a poem or several. In poetry (good or bad) we express something...
