King of the Swans

 

 

He has given up on housing-

departments, won’t stand in queues,

fill in forms. No thanks.

 

Come back tomorrow. He won’t bother.

 

Now he’s regal near water,

dispenses crusts, calls down swans,

seagulls also.

 

They gust like litter, unruly,

landing on benches; on the skin of the canal.

 

They have slowed their wing-beats

a fraction,

their special way of arriving:

 

their slow glide of greeting.