Saturday, January 30, 2010

Swans of the River Ayr

(Mute Swan)

of the River Ayr

poem of Mary Oliver



...All swans are only relics of
those birds

Who sail the tideless waters of the

Who traveled once the waters of the

Infecting dreams, helping the child
to grow;

And who for age, seeing witless man

Deck the rocks with gifts to make
them mild,

Sensed the disaster to their
uncaught lives,

And streamed shoreward like a white

With heads reared back to strike
and wings like knives.


children we know of wildness and our hearts weep at how we are tamed, and how
we tame those around us.  We become safe
within our walled fortress of cultures as we trade fierce swans for those grown
up on white bread. Perhaps we should be feeding these swans now white bread,
but the wonder bread which is our lives and our hearts.  Abundant mana would then fall, freely given
as we journey from castles of retreat and war. 
We would give up the false illusion that we can ever be safe.  In turn, our wild hearts will break down our
false sense of isolation, perhaps in violent and painful circumstances, and return
us and all those longing to be free in our natures in all of nature.


What are you afraid of in nature?
Your nature?


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