Swaine the swan sits alone
Counting the number nines pass her home.
Near the Travellers Rest is a field of wheat ‘cross the drain,
Where the A10 buzzes sixty past Chittering Lane.
Sweet savours of rotting sewage fill the air.
Like the rubbish near by nobody knows why she’s there.
A broken leg caught in a trap,
Or is it a wing that’s just simply gone snap?
Late last summer her relatives came to call
Ten around her gave hope, but they’d all gone by the fall.
At ploughing time she moves to the furthest corner
Avoiding sprayers and reapers, being an extrovert loner.
Clear Lode offers hope for a dip once a week
If only Swaine could explain all one day, use her beak to speak
Till then she returns to guard her very own molehill
Until the mountains of waste surround, or she becomes fatally ill.
© Alan J Irving 1 April 2015