Cathedral Swans

 

 

Music of water,

virgin white notes

of a dark river's stave.

 

Mute swans cast

before the cathedral’s

ancient shadow

 

magnetised (faithless,

perhaps) they slope towards

a bridge scented with blood.

 

I watch them nestle

in the shade where once

boy soldiers hid barrels of pitch,

 

stood on burning ramparts

sharp-ended by fear

dabbing tubers.

 

Red ivy clusters a chancery door

hides musket shot –

the discordant seal of a long

 

forgotten war – white-pot,

buttermilk, rickles of stone

submerged in the cloudy silt.

 

Memory takes flight,

a door-lock springs; the swans

return to this faithful city’s

 

evening promenade -

folly and blindness,

the secret of a still-water's bank,

 

they hang in the sky like a sweet

angel’s trumpet, lost lamentations of white

descending clouds.

 

When musket smoke stirs

ancient bells will peal. When ghosts appear

mute swans will sing.