Leda

The swan is not dead,
he moves beneath
    the willow tree,
    amazing and gray, the coolness overwhelming,
as he raises his neck to waterfall,
to the wind.

In the long grasses, he goes, softly unaware until we take hold, and come to him in daybreak. He thrums, he lifts up slowly, by the water’s edge.

The swan is taking flight, to home from love to desire, and a soft foliage glides about his throat, until time brings grief! O memory!

• HD Hilda Doolittle