Lake Without a Swan
Upon a lake there swam a swan.
A lake was what she swam upon
and, by the side,
a painter tried
to reproduce her grace.
The swan, in patent agony,
said, “Mister! You are stealing me!”
The artist heard
the talking bird
and terror smoothed his face.
Said artist “Do I understand
you speak the language of this land?
You must affirm
what I discern!
Repeat and I’ll believe you!”
The swan retorted, “Fellow, why
are you surprised to hear that I
can speak to you?
That's nothing new!
Your ignorance must grieve you!
“I thought the human race knew all
regarding creatures great and small;
the way we quest
for mate and nest
and how we have survived.
Why do you think I’ve kept so still,
allowing you to use your skill?
I knew you were
a painter, sir,
the moment you arrived!
“But now, alas, I realise
you see me with an artist’s eyes.
I must request
that now you rest
from painting my reflection.
Had you been an amateur
I would have been quite happy, sir,
to let you spill
and splash your fill,
far from your art’s perfection.
“But seeing how the way your grin
has prospered there above your chin,
I’d guess your Muse
has heard the news:
a masterpiece is brewing,
and I in centuries to come
will hang in gallery and home
and never will
I die until
millennia ensuing.
“O, have you never understood
why He who saw that all was good
protects the swan
from vagabond
and lets it live and die?
I’m not like you, my artisan.
I’m not eternal, not like man.
Oblivion
is so the swan
does not pollute the sky.
“Likewise the Lord of All decrees
that beasts of burden, birds and bees
are blest above
the fond self-love
that you have for your race.
You made an Image, called it God
and set it in the Land of Nod:
a thing to blame
when in your shame
you bear too much disgrace.
“So don’t immortalise me sir.
Make of my form a shimmering blur,
with greys and blues
and sundry hues
to drown my soul discreetly.
The spending of a minute’s toil
creates more water with your oil
and you can make
this shapeless lake
engulf my shape completely.”
The artist stayed entirely still
and motionlessly sat until
a little breeze
blew from the trees
and whispered through his hair.
“I’ll change my picture as you wish.
I’ll scrub you out and paint some fish
and you will be
a memory
that no one else will share.
“This scene will now repay my name
no salary nor living fame,
nay, though it brings
the wealth of kings
when I return to ashes.
I'll call it 'Lake without a swan'
for here is life that must be gone.
I’ll drown it so
someone I know
can rest below the splashes.”
At this the swan showed gratitude
that man is kind as well as shrewd.
She flapped her wings
and told him things
an artist can’t ignore:
that on a lake a deity
saw love she thought she’d never see
and, by her down,
his life’s renown
would live for ever more