Geese And Swans

De regibus et Septentrionalis


At dark of Moon they fell from the sky
and sailed the lough,
starched gondolas amongst the reeds.
Lords of slush under the iron stars of winter.

A fusillade of atonal beseechings and
mist thrummed like phlegm in a throat as
prehistory whitened the black water.
An escape and return to court.
A re-establishment of majesty.

No robes of ermine nor chains of office;
nothing to maim this legitimacy of feather.
Born of sleet,
here in the hills,
these diamonds in the night;
these Kings of the North.