And lastly, this is the second to last poem I wrote before the barren years.
Leda
The distant hum of wings whistles through the water.
Minute droplets of acidic fear fall on her bare flesh
And refuse to burn away the blood
spattered on his pristine white feather breast.
His claws are rampant in the struggle for his prey.
The grotesque beating melody effaces
my eardrums as the sea ebbs away
from the majestic swan in triumphal stand.
Stirred by the gentle moans of the retreating surf
the bird takes flight leaving the figure still
swaying to the beat of wing on flesh,
a trickle of red on her ankle sinking in the sand.
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