Leda plucks a swan
Old now, the body that enchanted him
grown coarse, how could he know her?
Yet she knows him, this creature,
even with fallen wings, eyes empty
of desire. Not hers. She’s spent a lifetime
finding what he stole from her, doing it
like he did, without her chance
to touch him, or raise her eyes to his.
That’s why, holding him in her lap,
she takes her hand to him
and in a storm of whiteness
scatters his power of flight.
Jill Sharp is a member of Poetry Swindon and her poems have appeared most recently in the Morning Star, Mslexia, The Interpreter’s House and the Orange Coast Review. Her pamphlet, Ye gods, is published by Indigo Dreams.
Note: First published in IMPpress, Issue 3