Kathryn Millington

Sågsjön, Sweden

The swans are tired of this cold place.
They have gathered sleekly on the shore,
Their black feet, the colour of boiled nettles.
Some drift in the shallows. Some have young.

I want to be here.
Instead? I orbit what I lack.
I beat my wings at the swans,
And they beat theirs back.

On edge, my husband Tom takes
Photos. While I creep in. So I can
Experience my life with me in it,
Remember nice things we’ve also done.

I want to be here.
Instead? I orbit what I lack.
I beat my wings at the swans,
And they beat theirs back.

I am sculling (ironically, I think),
Legs trailing behind me. Knees
bobbing slackly on the surface,
the only part of me that is warm.

I want to be here.
Instead? I orbit what I lack.
I beat my wings at the swans,
And they beat theirs back.
Then, eleven swans fly over, singular against the sky,
The sun glinting on their crowns,
Sloughing off their nettle socks,
Their gift to me. Don’t dwell on pain.

I beat my wings at the swans,
And they beat theirs back.

We are all swans now, breaking into
cloud vapour-skin. It once made us howl,
this plunge into cold.
It can’t hurt us more, than it already has.

I beat my wings at the swans,
And they beat theirs back.

I feel a trembling peace begin somehow,
in the middle of this Swedish lake.
So, I flow through the water back to Tom

Part woman, part swan.