The Swan
Just as Blake engraved his poems backwards,
out of necessity but also open-mindedness,
each illuminated word gleaming in relief
against its brightly burning backdrop,
something clicked into place
as we watched it hurtling upwards:
the desperate, beating wingspan
testament to what should or could or can
be achieved when all’s open, flung wide,
neck craned out and eyes on the prize
as, thrashing itself from the lake’s surface,
its flight was a realised extravagance –
as Blake, man of genius and boy of visions,
saw angels line the trees, beyond reach of metaphors.
poem by Ben Wilkinson; first published in The Sparks (tall-lighthouse, 2008)
