My Swan and other Lake side friends

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
some salad thoughts seeing this unusual spectacle of a mother and daughter nesting side by side on the lake near my boat..
other visitors .. some old pals .. some blow ins..
the awkwardness of us guys near the labour ward.
No atttempt is made at rhyme or srtucture .. just mind pictures for the 1st of April as the buds come into life and the greening sweeps the land .
and there is a joy at just sitting there in a boat casting flies drifting by..

Submitted: April 22, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 22, 2009




She labours stoically on the rocky outcrop off  my boat .
And  in her long confinement of 90 days she will but leave the nest,
When her fumbling mate comes diligently by to relieve of her labour ;
And sit and incubate - until he’s told to move off ;
And with rebuke of stark incompetence ,
He is ejected from the nest
Men- useless men , never get the knack now shoo..
And with an enduring loftiness
He waddles clumsily  to the shore  ;
His dignity scarcely  recovered as he shuffles his feathers down ,
In a manly way as if to say to me , with a conspiratorial wink
 As if he were still the boss and
- it’s a guy thing.

  (Ive somewhere heard all this before )

He  launches  himself in the rippling
Surf  that gathers on the shoreline like smoke stained candy floss;
The bearded froth of the lake ,
Passing me by with regal haughter
And I almost feel obliged to
Excuse myself and move my boat.
But  he swims serenely on ;
Up and down the shoreline till he’s called upon again
And again he’ll come and make a hames of things ,
like all men -
And again he will suffer rebuke and wrath and
Be  scolded .and when he’s done his  bit of incubation ; gets kicked
Unceremoniously from the nest ;And shooed away again.

I feel for him;
He’s just yielding to his feminine side - it’s a cob thing
Like that guy thing - we understand each other .
We say nothing - guys are stoical about these things .

(Ive somewhere heard all this before )

Why she picks this rocky outcrop
Exposed  to the shards of north winds searing down the lake
And slashing rain from the south ;
And all whimsies of weather in between ;
I don’t know .

 But she  heeds neither element ,
Nor inconsiderate male intruder -
She just perseveres ;just right here ,
Year after year.

This  thefourth year of our acquaintance ,
When first I met her on her rocky isthmus.
But she plays hard to get ,
And as my boat goes drifting down her shore she
Arches her graceful neck long enough to show her affront,
Or is it tolerance , or maybe loathing;
-hadn’t thought of that ;
But it’s a private thing ,
And I almost turn away apologising ;
conscious of my intrusion

But this year I see her daughter
Has taken up by her mothers side ,
And she too is brooding , thinking ,dreaming ;
In the full exposure of the elements
And I know they’re thinking
-why that bastard cant find somewhere else to fish?
Saw him catch one there last year ; is there no where else he knows?

This here  is a girl thing ;
But they’re utterly unthinking , Men.
Selfish. Me me me all the time .Me .

Where did I hear all this before ?

There’s a kestrel in the tall spruces by the house.
Saw him yesterday just hover; dive , suspend his flight in a quiver and
Flutter , frozen in the sky ; dive and soar and swoop s aloft again
To his look-out perch in the swaying  leafless branches.

Three magpies and a heron  are hanging out there too ;
And today the  first house martin arrived .
Swiftly darting above the waves,
Ravenous after his long journey from the South
- 1000 miles or more.
Glutinous  now he sears through the buzzing  duck fly
 Whose clouds  twist and turn
In swaying vortices above the hawthorn trees.

For now I’ll let them be
Mother and daughter have much to
Gaggle about -
Yes they gaggle
- Its not geese - gaggle ;
Girls gaggle
Its so much more becoming
Than giggling;
And swans don’t do giggling;
They are much too serious
And if you like ; imperious .

As March  yields to April  
I await my final guest
The cuckoo
For she comes in April ,
When the whitethorn fills the air
With gentle fragrance of the summer
And  swathes the countryside
With a wash of creamy pink.

And the chimneys in the cottages
Will be cooled ; smokeless
And the thatched roofs can breathe
Again in the soft warmth
Of the Summer air .

© Copyright 2017 donkylemore. All rights reserved.

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