But are they sad?’ I overheard her say.
No more than five
Up North with mum for the August bank holiday.
I saw what she meant. They hardly seemed alive
Compared with, overhead, the flock of geese
That flew with everything they had toward France
Or Spain. All of a sudden, all eyes went skyward.
But if the swans were jealous, they held their peace.
I bet they knew, by then, they’d had their chance.
Homesick, maybe. Sad? That wasn’t my word.
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