The swans are singing. I leave the door open and the wind carries their song across the water and into my room. Before I went to bed I’d walked the dogs along the edge of the bay. We’d followed the path and the only light is the stars and the green hum on the horizon of the southern lights. School holidays have finished and the bay is quiet again. The swans, who have spent the summer on the far shore, are back in front of the shack. There is maybe a hundred or more and in the dark they sound like an orchestra. As we walk along the shore they are aware of us, that is the dogs and me. I hear a deeper sound, an alarm, but they don’t startle, instead they talk, a percussion, the beat to me a foreign language.
How beautiful; your words on friendship sang to me - that language of long-held connections. So glad to have stumbled upon your words. Thank you also for reminding me of Barbara Kingsolver!
Thanks Maggie, I so agree with your words about old friendships and also our bodies over time, kind regards Trish
How beautiful; your words on friendship sang to me - that language of long-held connections. So glad to have stumbled upon your words. Thank you also for reminding me of Barbara Kingsolver!
Thank you, Maggie - love the 'bit' of poetry you included especially !
Cheers,
Margo