Winter Swans – Zaneta
The clouds have given their all,
until the long wanted
victory – two days of rain.
Yet the dim spell broken – a break, in which we
walked,
walked the suffocating earth of moisture,
a waterlog
gulping for clean air at our feet,
as we skirted the water pond or rather a freshwater,
crystal clear, but silent.
Violins then were not in tune.
Until the swans approached
and stopped the
time of the tormenting reality,
by the smooth tipping
like two violins
streaming in a unison of a sonata.
The violins then halved in parts
as did the
swans in the dark clean pond,
the tipping feather of white,
paused and reluctantly wavered
as
if boats bound to countering the dusky storm.
‘They mate for life’ was what you said
as they
left in the even waters of porcelain,
as if spelled by the already tuned
violins.
I didn’t answer, as we further walked through the afternoon light,
slow-stepping by this porcelain,
our hands
were already bonded,
where main violin played the cadenza at its climax
Those hands folded one over another,
akin to
those wings of a swan,
settling after the dim spell broken.
