The swan flies a long road
over the ocean and waves
to the lake of her childhood,
her cygnet curled safely on her back.
Tired and worn,
pearl wings do not falter
in the brilliant moonshine,
eyes never drift shut.
Fire touches the cold horizon
and burns the appearance of land
as the moon sets silently
into the silver ocean.
Past seas reaching for the land,
the swan flies over the lea,
purple and pink in the dawn,
her cygnet still sleeping sound.
The last star kisses away the night
and the swan sets into her lake,
the cygnet warm and quiet,
tired, but safe and home.