NIRVANA

Snow on the field? No, seven grazing swans.
Far off, they seemed strewn cushion-heaps of snow.
Swiftly the drain's wind-bristled water runs,
Taming five rebel naiads' overflow.
My boots, along the thistle-tangled mall,
Disturb the ground with omens of funeral,
As eastward into empty air I go.
Two of the swans slide into the canal.
Eastward the drain's wind-bristled water runs.
The drab, green field is pasture for five swans.

Leonard McCarthy