Swan’s Down

I am still drafting the poem of the day in the darkness. By the time I pull out my laptop (because I always first draft poems in longhand), there is a rumour of brightness. I can see a patch of blue sky below a grey cloud that seems to be drifting north. Looking out into the garden, the bird neighbours are working their way through the suet balls. And waiting on a fence post is my favourite – a blackbird – its beak a real beacon, shining in the day as it slowly brightens.

I am so blessed to live in the most beautiful corner of the world, down the most beautiful lane in Europe (according to my friend Pen), close to two small magical loughs, and near the source of a mighty river, in a chunk of landscape that shows of its million year and more roots. It doesn’t boast. But it knows what it is, and that is a miracle in itself.

But…I digress from poetry practice. Somedays it can be a bit more difficult than others to light upon a subject. Today was such a day. And then I realised that there is that fund of random, weird images from dreams, ones that you can pull out of the furthermost file drawer of memory, but so potent they are never truly forgotten.

Swan's Down

I dreamed of a swan's down hut,
a little haystack mound
of feathers
that I knew was our home.

it's where the soul goes to live
in that downy house on
the hillock
that I knew was our home.

we had to turn away, though
I wanted to linger.
How I longed
to stay at Swan's Down House.

it still will always be home,
that soulful, silent place
of beauty
that I just knew was home.

Some day
I'll hear the whooper cry
flying over the lough
one winter
and fly off with the flock.

Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.

Featured Photo by Jan Genge on Unsplash

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