A poem inspired by a black swan in London, England.
We feed the pure and white swans,
In hopes the elegant swans flourish without feelings of fright and famine.
Birds delight at the Festival of Food, as swans and other birds of intricate designs rejoice at the presence of broken bread,
But a swan’s shadow arises and piqued our curiosity.
The swan in which other swans disregard as an alien,
The scarlet bill allures the givers of bread.
A creature manifested the spirit of a renegade with obsidian feathers gliding through Winter’s wonderous gift of chill.
Drifting silently around the perimeter of pleading swans,
The frigid sun remains high while Zephyr’s breath pierces through our wool coats and hats,
Proceeding with a dignity and grace.