The Queen's Bird

They say that a swan in anger
can break a man's arm with its wing.
Watch pond visitors withdraw
when one swan comes. But I'd back
the human every time. Just consider
a man in his twenties with deft feet
and palms hardened by axe and shovel
against neck, so like a jug handle,
in snowy circumference a hand's length.

Three chicks bob to the shore, bread bound
till they topple in foam, wet wing fronds and stand,
ovals of down only, cloud-grey,
a mouthful each for the tod fox
that lingers in willows, and watches.
Their father is swift on still water.
Through wing's arc I see air and shore beyond,
his neck like a serpent, the chisel bill and head
held proudly, the breast that none dares touch
for any swan is the queen's bird.

My four year old son fed cygnets
with fingers so soft that the flaked bread dropped
and so bent to urge the crumbs further.
The curve of his skull approached as the chicks pecked.
I heard the aggressive hiss, saw plumes spread,
a hard cob, threatening my boy.


Colin


PS Does anyone know more about the law in question and/or think I should say
more about it as a foot note?