The Queen has come to Bristol Bridge.
She floats on the muddy water
in snowy white,
Her feathers bright as ice
and soft as milk.
She's cool as frost
and elegant as silk.
Her courtiers all around her bow
and peck and preen and effortlessly glide,
but she can read the ebb of every tide.
When winter comes in long, grey coats
she flatfoots up the mud
in icy rain,
a plain, aristocratic refugee,
and finds a place of refuge on the quay.
And all the cold, white winter long
she makes her nest
and waits upon this ridge,
until the King has come to Bristol Bridge.