Winter Swans

There are fields in Lancashire where the swans meet of a December morning, snow-robed dancers in a Christmas play. With the frost clinking like small bells and the acres frozen with white-capped tips, the reeds hollow and dry, the airs sing of winter.

With the first light’s golden cue the birds rise like an audience, applauding the sunrise as it paints our world with wonder. Synchronised with each other, wingstroke by wingstroke, gliding with the snowdrops turned to drizzle, they blend into the milky sky, flying past quietly, infusing the subtle pastels above the floodplains with downy grace until a haunting caw wakes the hour, echoed by a hundred voices  joining from different directions.

We on the ground wish we could join in and experience the magic of rushing through these dawn-tinted skies and feel the airstreams carry us through the clouds, towards the sun. The freedom would be exhilarating.