Swan

I do not feel nostalgic 

for anything, except yesterday 

and the green aisle of river.

She passed me, a white ship,

a light, but wedded to darkness;

moon-bride, veiled in mist

beneath a fold of birches,

watchers of water. 
 

She said, 'do not think

about death in the morning,'

and below her, the pike,

a muscular jaw, the lurk

of lamprey, serpentine;

their sin hidden, shamed,

though it was men

who built the churches. 
 

Above her, two swifts shriek,

the tawny owl shuts out the day - 

'a servant of sadness,' she said, 

'even so, do not marry it.'

Beside her, cardinal flowers

weigh bees like justice, here,

all of our hearts beat their secrets;

a history of briar, that strangles 

slow and thorned.

I am lost in it, as if lost

was a birthright, and

I do not know the way back,

unsonged, unwinged, somewhere

south of sorrow, yet still held fast

to tomorrow, where, 'flight 

is just a combination of faith

and momentum,' she said. 
 

Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Elenore_Abbott_-_Six_Swans_-_1920.jpg