Once a swan

by Deborah Moffatt

Gone are the days when she wore 
delicate shoes and flowing skirts
and caught every eye in passing, 

those feminine trappings no use to her now
when she has to pick the flesh and bone 
of a dead deer from the grill of a car,

every journey to town a dreary odyssey
in mud and flood and blinding rain,
grubby smudges of oil and dirt 

staining her weather-beaten cheeks,
her long hair torn by wind and storm, 
her arms and legs scarred by thorn and claw,

but still, on some dark night you’ll see her yet,
dressed in all her finery, moving gracefully 
through time like a swan on the water.