Swan Delight Poem by Matt Mooney

These are the dark days of the winter, short and stormy;
The wind and the driving rain rebuff the flowerless furze.
The sycamore and the beech that were so fair out there
Stand bleakly staring into space, uncertain of their fate.

And I am thinking of the swans in the bog of Ballinagare.
They have never left my mind, come rain or come shine,
Ever since three cygnets grey swooped above my head,
Over the rusty metal bridge that spanned the broad river.

All three flew low and wide around and then they landed
Downstream with muffled whoops of cygnet swan delight;
Heads held in the air, graceful as the Viking ships at sea;
They were close to me where I was the under cover man.

My water skiers with loud whirring of their musical wings
Skimmed along the surface of the river to westwards fly
To their chosen spot where they could swim alone apart;
At that I felt a touch of loss to think of mine gone far away.

But one evening from the road I saw them all assembled,
All a gaggle in a green bog field beside the flowing river;
Seeing five more of their swans the rest below paraded-
Their chanting windpipes all in tune in a place deserted.