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I walk along a trail to find
the path that winds beyond,
where courses marked by trees confined,
reveal a tranquil pond.
And there, upon her rightful throne,
a swan swims soft and slow;
in all the hours she spends alone-
this swan, I've come to know.
A slender neck, fine-feathered wings,
a gown of purest white;
With bead-like eyes, her sight still springs
from day into the night.
I watch her graceful, gentle glide,
with burdens not revealed;
Her regal ruse still seems to hide
a loneliness concealed.
What’s covered by her beauty’s gift?
Has calmness killed her fight?
Do troubles drown beneath her drift?
Will she again take flight?
A natural need to mate for life-
I fear her mate’s passed on.
She drifts along this pond in strife,
a lovely, lonely swan.
But take no pity on this queen;
for strength, she cannot mask.
Beneath the water's tranquil sheen,
she’s surging with a task.
The stillness in her wandering,
as ripples rise, I wonder-
Her poise provokes a pondering
of fervent forces under.
Some things aren't quite as they appear;
some surfaces hide battles.
For swans to float on ponds, they bear
the need for frantic paddles.
When fighting just to stay above,
imagine an existence
where we might share a fraction of
a swan's grace and persistence.
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"Poetry.com" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 12 Sep. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/>.
.jpg/225px-Rudyard_Kipling_(portrait).jpg "Rudyard Kipling"){kind=small}
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