Playing saxophone for the swans
All out along, all down the long
pollarded willow drove,
where roving daylight tries
to conjure widened skies
above the far and stretching moor,
an old man stands: plays saxophone
for a gather of swans.
Whilst the wildness of the wind
and instances of blues
Tune his eyes beyond horizons,
Clouds of whispers, feathered breaths
Catch counterpoints of dreams.
The old man looks: plays saxophone
For a welcome of swans.
Upon a time, once down that lane
Of memories, good friends
Had walked together, shared the sight
Of fields sealed white with wings -
The whole point for his pausing.
The gentled man stays: plays saxophone
For an absence of swans.
The sky-filled rhynes swallowed his tunes
Each rhythm, every riff;
The gliding breeze stole melodies
Took more, left less of this one set
From all he knew and all he could.
Not there, to hear some old dude play
Those swans will show if not quite yet.
