[Trevor Conway]

The distant hiss of the waterfall
calls to mind a swan I fed
– and somehow offended – here as a child.
But I’ve always been too clumsy
– with words and tone and dumb emotion –
to understand how I transgress,

just as I’ve done yet again,
now as a man
(too much a man)
with eyes fixed on a grey cloud
smudged against the sky’s expanse.

A mind submits to many moods,
to certain words,
and to their absence.
At such moments, intertwining
seems a kind of abomination –
as odd and pathetic as amorous foxes
attached at the pelvis,
unable to part.

A shadowy flock appears,
twists to the shape of a thumbprint.
Each separate bird
possesses enough poise to inherit the sky
instead of worrying what the next one thinks,

but a lone bird is a vulnerable thing,
so these agile beings
embellishing the sky above Glencar
know it’s best to stay together.