At times the hurt is with her like a fist
she can’t unclench, a shackle at her throat.
Don’t care, she tells herself. But still, the mist
of tears arrives and settles. Don’t emote.
This pain is baggage, rubbish, must be cast
away. I have to throw it in the lake.
The thought distracts. She washes, dresses, fast
and resolute, despite the constant ache.

Once at the lake, however, there’s no need
to hurl the burden. Somehow, it has gone.
Her heart is light; she smiles. She’s feeling freed
upon the banks, at one with George the swan
and cherished cygnets, sunshine in her eyes
as all come sailing under cloudless skies.