i.m. Michael Coady
They take to the river each night,
held in its current against harm.
A river town’s a winged town,
as you so deeply knew.
Small wonder that when the swans
leave the meadows where they’ve wintered,
when their haunting bugle mingles
with the brass band on the bridge
where you lie in a willow coffin,
when they wheel above the town
in those great broken rings –
small wonder that you are with them,
riverwinged, taken into the air.
The fields are drowned in the ceremony
of spring, dandelion, blackthorn,
the little burning stars of celandine.
Everywhere birds are building nests
but you’re leaving home,
you’re following the shining tracks
of different rivers, heading north,
heading out to sea, winging yourself
into that final mystery, crossing over.
Mark Roper’s most recent publication is From The Japanese Gardens, with photographer Margaret O’Brien-Moran
They take to the river each night,
held in its current against harm.
A river town’s a winged town,
as you so deeply knew.
Small wonder that when the swans
leave the meadows where they’ve wintered,
when their haunting bugle mingles
with the brass band on the bridge
where you lie in a willow coffin,
when they wheel above the town
in those great broken rings –
small wonder that you are with them,
riverwinged, taken into the air.
The fields are drowned in the ceremony
of spring, dandelion, blackthorn,
the little burning stars of celandine.
Everywhere birds are building nests
but you’re leaving home,
you’re following the shining tracks
of different rivers, heading north,
heading out to sea, winging yourself
into that final mystery, crossing over.
Mark Roper’s most recent publication is From The Japanese Gardens, with photographer Margaret O’Brien-Moran
