The Man & The Swan

This poem is dedicated to the elderly who are alone during this pandemic. Please remember to always be kind and pursue helping the lonely and vulnerable, whether during a crisis or not. Our hearts and morals will outlive COVID19 and these must extend to every corner of the world.

Whilst he raised his mug to the widowed swan, 

Tipping his boater hat at a lone relic,

He wished farewell to the ghost from Sichuan,

Grasped his stick, and ran from the pandemic.

Haunting whispers from CNN followed-

Him down the path to the teak wooden bench,

Where he was invited in to Thoreau’s abode- 

And spoke of his love for that Chinese wench.

“I never found the companion-

That was so companionable as solitude”,

Smiled Thoreau as he roasted a salmon,

And the man cried as her whispers subdued.

He closed the book as it was time for tea,

And entered The Nook that was blue and empty.

—

The evening drew on and the promise of dawn-

Subsided into his hot chai tea toddy,

Whilst he reminisced about times bygone,

And kissing Qing at the ponds in Peabody.

As his mind orbited obsidian,

Sparks of void thought like glitter twirled,

Through river walks in sun-kissed Zion-

And travels with Qing in the vast new world. 

The swan watched the silent blue cottage-

Puff its last breath of exhausted smoke,

Into the night’s sky and over the Brooklyn Bridge-

Blanketing pubs and drunken townsfolk. 

The windowed eyes of The Nook peeped out,

At the widowed swan and fresh water trout.

—

At midnight each night the swan did sing,

As he bowed to the breeze and the water hyacinth,

To the little old man and his dear wife Qing,

Before drifting through an illusory labyrinth.

He floated on down the Mississippi River,

To Oak Alley house and the bleak slave shacks,

Where Antoine had pecan trees to consider,

Whilst he bottled echos of Bamboula’s sax.

Luminescent Louisiana Oaks-

Reminded the swan of his departed love, 

Who died swaddled in illicit fishing ropes.

Alone and lost, he thought he shall be, thereof.

Yet autumn came and he discovered The Nook,

And saw the man with his antiquated book.

—

He observed the man for 80 days straight,

And came to notice his melancholy.

On February 12^th he had a Chinese date-

Two bowls of wonton, and leftover holly.

Two places laid at his dining table.

Yukon Jack ready in a duo decanter,

Asian pears coated in sugar maple,

And maps of a buried trip to Atlanta. 

He bowed his head and toasted to Qing,

And chatted to an unoccupied chair. 

He offered her crispy duck from Peking, 

Before taking it back in utter despair.

Not a morsel touched his old trembling lips,

Instead he stood to see the partial eclipse.

—

Under the obscured celestial sky,

The widowed swan glimmered as a moonstone-

With rivers soaked deep into ancient Shanghai-

Running through his feathers into the unknown. 

The little old man noticed the lone swan,

So sung Orisbon “Only the Lonely”-

Into a one star sky – a single proton,

Of which he believed was his one and only.

The swan replied with a nod of its head,

And stayed by The Nook forevermore-

Promising the old man to love him instead-

Of lamenting his love in a psywar.

They then became an inseparable pair,

Crucial to one another’s mental welfare.

—

When the pandemic hit Missouri State,

Neighbours offered baked bread and butter-scotch,

Whilst squash and leek they started to cultivate.

Days warped and time stopped his pendulum watch.

The brightest days danced with the demons of night,

Fractured by poetry at eventide- 

Along the riverside with the spry white swan,

Who wondered why people had always denied- 

The little old man of kindness and hope-

Leaving him alone to comprehend death.

When Qing got sick he struggled to cope,

And misery dawned when ice fell from her breath.

He spent years alone infusing gins and tea,

Until the swan came and set his soul free.

—

Now all of a sudden because the news said:

“Look after the elderly at home alone”,

The locals unified and care was spread-

Beyond The Nook to her bare gravestone.

The twisting currents of his conscious thought,

Felt plagued with questions about humanity,

So he turned to books for the answers he sought,

But, only found truth in his fruitful plum tree.

Like a withered plum dropped on the ground,

He realised that people will pick what they need, 

Until isolation and being home bound,

Makes one wish to save the withdrawn lost seed.

This thought brought sadness but also the belief,

That he and his swan will recover from grief.

—