Swans

Washed in Arctic,

Return to their ballroom of glass

Still in the grip of the wizard,

With the jewel stuck in their throats.

Each one still condemned

To meditate all day on her mirror

Hypnotised with awe.

Each swan glued in her reflection

Airy

As the water-caught plume of a swan.

Each snowdrop lyrical daughter possessed

By the coil

Of a black and scowling serpent –

Dipping her eyes into subzero darkness,

Searching the dregs of old lakes

For her lost music.

Then they all writhe up the air,

A hard-hooved onset of cavalry –

Harp the iceberg wall with soft fingers.

Or drift, at evening, far out

Beyond islands, where the burning levels

Spill into the sun

And the snowflake of their enchantment melts.