The Swan A night spent alone walking by windswept canal, sharp stinging shards of rain shower me from on above. Heavy shades of dull amber hue heave down upon me, fractured by fragile droplets that fall in waves. The salt of streetlight playing the part of interloper, furtively forbidding my fancy for darkness. Looming over lustful waters my shadow beckons an audience, whispers of wishful promises lie waiting beneath the swelling surface. Reason of mind and regret of heart in antipathy vying for ruling, contriving cause and caution for the release of a handrail. To sink or swim like a toppled swan turning in its grave strangely, Feeding fingers’ charity bring back the colour to my cheeks.
Giuseppe Gillespie – October 2021
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Giuseppe Gillespie Writing 