Swans, by Sue Spiers

Pipe-cleaner necks twisting under tails
Mucky rumps of algae from the creek
They preen their plumage snowy pale
Pristined to clean by amber beaks

The grooming pair, male on the bank
Female in the water, ignore our cry
Of hello, we fetch a loaf and throw a chunk
Of soaring bread to catch their eye

The movement makes her stare and soon
She’s swimming to our grassy shore
Wings arched like an angel’s, the swan
Dabbles for the soggy crumbs, wants more

Her mate launches into her wake
And pleads mutely for his feed
But dominates, makes her wait, takes
More than he’s due, it’s plainly greed

The bread is scattered left and right
To even odds so she’s not robbed
Her feed is lobbed out of his sight
But really we can’t tell pen from cob.

Sue Spiers has a collection called Jiggle Sac, styled after the anthology Rattle Bag in that the poems are in alphabetical order. However, Sue doesn’t rattle and is not a bag. When not jiggling (rare), Sue is SIG Sec for British Mensa and on Twitter @spiropoetry


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *