The Wild Swans

perhaps she was held aloft by threads of the mystic blue and green
or by her dreams prophetic
beckoning to the secret task

as much as by the beating of their wings, the wild birds
her brothers, formerly, enchanted now
and she must undertake their freedom somehow

though the thorns she weaves
won't only break the skin
but her frail heart.

work through the dark of the world 
the handiwork of light
the angels cry.

then leave her.
she finds the nettles near the mosses easily
but concealment is impossible

she must endure
the mockery of those
impure who trick and trip her in the lanes

and those from the underworld revived.
who beg the question  of the feeling of 
still being alive

till in her heart pale birds arise
and cry the cry of centuries denied
the light of the inner sky

the silver bells
the landscape where
all beauty dwells, so unrecovered still.

mary angela douglas 25 december 2019