Clarence Caddell: ‘Swan Fishing’

Swan Fishing

Sad that such cruel means should be required
To capture such a noble animal;
But given how they feed, wolfing it all
At once, no diamond-tipped or Vulcan-fired
Contraption would prevent their suffering:
They have to swallow it to make them sing.

To realise this fully in advance—
And then to see the wounded creature breach
The surface, as a thought accedes to speech,
The logos in its unseen, twilit dance;
Or like the blooming forth of what exists,
Soon as our senses touch it, from the mists

Of not quite being:—not until the reel
Is strained by the extreme reality
Of what is brought to light, are we given to see
The miracle that breaks the water’s seal—
A thrill comparable to the sweet savour
Of gaining a beloved’s long-sought favour:

The subaquatic swan whose fins are wings
At last, yet all unwilling and in pain!
The blinding silver shower and the rain
Of feather-scales, the while its swansong rings
Upon the air! But bring your camera:
The white ones soon dissolve to foetid tar,

The black ones ossify, turn chalky white
And crumble in a minute, DNA
Degrading just as swiftly—yet the grey
Paste made of both remains restores both sight
And breath to those born blind, centuries dead.
If only this rare species could be bred!

Clarence Caddell