Swan Song

I guess just throw it
on the compost,
this dead swan at the bottom
of the road.
So much larger here at my feet –
a feathered cello,
neck bent around to bow
a low moan.

It was never white, 
bright silver 
now brushed with death
to mottled grey.
Prisms of dew 
bead the wings –
tasting flights of fine oil
feeding mites.
No prayer 
I roll like a dog
in dead words. 

The Sunday Muse

19 thoughts on “Swan Song

  1. Amazed by the way this balances the physical & practical matter of a dead bird with a gloss of the wonder it would have had, flying. And the last stanza is one to chew over.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I’m rather stuck for words of praise – live ones in particular so that I do not roll over like a dead dog
    a picture of pathos (the moan, the mites) coupled with an oil painting of swan feathers
    “it was a living light.
    Bright silver”

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Poems about the flotsam and detritus life dumps at our feet are some of my favorites, because, after all, anyone can write about how pretty the moon is. You have aced taking the incongruous and making it sing, showing its little victories of beauty amidst the mites and death, and of course, the last lines are a howl straight to and from the cerebellum. (and you cracked me up with the red
    wheelbarrow, which I know Shay loves almost as much as haiku)

    Liked by 1 person

    1. So glad you took the time to go back read this. When the muse conveniently drops a dead swan by the side of the road, there really isn’t much choice what to write about, LOL! Can’t look a gift cygnet in the mouth, or such.

      Liked by 1 person

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