I crossed the ancient bridge and sat
I waited for mind and flower to blossom
on personal bladed welcome mat
I craned my neck to see a swan
Wondered if white or gray
Was the sweet swan of the avon
Her feathers a mix of ink and clay
I spied her by the leaning willow
Neck long and planned with grace
Unmoving with places to go
I knew the lines in her face
What are the poetic lines I draw?
Will they linger or fade away?
Like a swan on a running stream
Will only written remnants be conveyed?
She, dressed in robes of secrets
Fanned tablets written upon with quill
Followed by famous blankets
Greatness penned upon by great Will
Who is this swan that swims alone?
Breaths a fresher spray?
Could she write songs by floating in past’s foam
Will frailty be displayed?
Unanswered all questions left behind
In Avon for grayer, dark, day
The wordsmith, the swan, and I are gone
To find a better way.
~DaLe
(This was written while sitting upon the banks of the Avon--William Shakespeare's Birthplace--as the sun set one evening.)
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