a swan flies,
floating on a pillow
of impossible dream.
secret magic and comfort lies
and an ache of a none past fiction
this green and pleasant land.
a flash of white
in the morning grey,
cold wet misery
unfurled by sudden majesty.
caught in the billows,
mind synced and memorised
and flying free,
in remembrance of mists
and mellow fruitfulness
now left to rot and decay.
the swan flies oblivious.
no sadness or sorrow
or weight of the world.
the swan flies regardless
of these human constructs,
these fabricated obstacles
we make for ourselves.
and in it\'s simple beauty,
suspended for a moment
in a waking mind,
the swan flies.