Day 770 of the Daily Poems, and at this early time of the year the roads, if not snowbound, have been pretty frosty. Anxiety abounds when family or friends take to the wheel, so say a little prayer … Our poet today, Derek Adams, recounts a harrowing tale.
The Dying Swan
Winter morning, diffuse
light through clouds
reflect off the icy road
making it look like a river
to a Bewick’s swan
searching
for somewhere to land.
It might have broken a leg
it might even have made it okay
if it hadn’t been for Amanda
in her old Mini Cooper,
Tchaikovsky
blasting from the CD player,
on her way to catch
the early train to London.
The windscreen crushed
the swan’s skull
then broke its neck,
before the body
thudded against the glass.
The car pirouettedoff the road,
down a three foot embankment
into an elm tree.
Two hours later,
firemen freed Amanda alive.
She no longer dreams
of dancing at Covent Garden;
just a thunderstorm
of glass and feathers,
a swan’s neck draped
over the dashboard,
the head a bloody pendulum
its one remaining yellow eye
fixed on her.
Derek Adams