Abbotsbury
Swannery
Mid-September
and overcast,
a gusting breeze threatens rain
as I park the old Ford,
wander down the sodden lane,
beneath the ancient chapel
on the high, Dorset hill,
to wooden walkways, reed-beds,
a long walk to the Fleet in chill,
moist
air under Chesil Bank,
beyond which grey sky looms
and tumbles, gulls and terns
soar and stoop. The ocean booms
behind the Bank. Late warblers sing
of summer lost among the reeds
and flit too fast to focus on,
searching berries, insects, seeds.
Squalls
of wind whip bubbling waves,
the brown, blown water lapping
as oil-skinned men carry barrels
of feed to oak jetties, clapping
their hands to attract the birds,
then scatter pellets to the throng
of crowding, flapping swans.
Beyond the lake, the song
of wind
whines through the reeds
as a heron stalls and wheels,
settles in the shallows,
watching. For now, it feels
as if the world is old and still,
far removed from people, words;
standing here in fading light
surrounded by wild, feeding birds.
Copyright © 2001 Trevor Hewett
