Ode to a Swan

Bobbing in the unend of waves self made,

I see a swan with mate doing the same,

It’s neck into water in hope to bade

Insects or the burgeon’d tadpoles now claim’d

By beak. The tint of its long nape not bleak.

For the scum and muck will cling to hackles,

Though wash’d doesn’t clean its noble physique,

So much like my stretch’d and porous shackles.

But the swan cares not for its amber crest,

for it wouldn’t be perfect sans mired brow.

I claim my purity that white possess’d;

My skin not a blight that I disavow.

I’ve learned to love my bodily gown,

for my forebears encase like feather’d down.