Pennage Serendipity

In shrouds a stretch of river there beneath

The overhanging limbs of dark, dark trees

(The Thames itself blocked out from light like death)

Is suddenly a space where swans at ease

Are floating like the souls of angels on

The surface of the universe. From them,

It seems, a sheen of glory spreads its dawn.

It shines as if the flowing, lustrous hem

Of Christ is offering archangel health.

The sheath of wetness glows because of white

Wings, perfect necks—and feathers spread their wealth

Across the current.  Darkness feels the smite

Of wonder there across its black silk skin.

The swans push out a therapy for sin.