Out of the Mist came the Swan,
Like a white sailed galleon of old,
So regally swimming along,
On the River of silver and gold.
In the dawn’s early light you can see,
And again at the close of the day.
Like a Spirit with gossamer wings,
As it proudly proceeds on it’s way.
The mirror like face of the River,
Is furrowed and cut by it’s wake.
And as with a dream in the night,
One blink, that is all it will take.
And once more the River will calm,
Will flatten and then be at one.
The Angel with wings has just vanished,
That beautiful ‘galleon’ is gone….