We spot the cygnets on Upper Lake today:
an elegant fleet, their flanks just turning white,
but incomplete as five. One child had stayed
with Dad, on Lower Lake, the previous night

or nights; who knew? "Three nights," I later learned
from Pittville's Swan-Lady. The five had flown
across, soon after George (the dad) seemed stern
and looked as though he'd like to be left alone

with just one daughter. Mother died in June;
"Nature will take its course," my expert said.
The instincts rule. We watch George chase a goose
then surge towards his girl with side-turned head

and she, submissive, give a little bow,
a subtlety. She's far too young to breed
but drifts upon her father's vigorous swell,
the first contender to satisfy his need,

incestuous in human terms. But swans
are not of contemporary human mind.
We leave them sailing off towards the ponds,
the daughter still a little way behind.