Swans of the River Ayr
A poem of Mary Oliver
...All swans are only relics of those birds
Who sail the tideless waters of the mind;
Who traveled once the waters of the earth,
Infecting dreams, helping the child to grow;
And who for age, seeing witless man
Deck the rocks with gifts to make them mild,
Sensed the disaster to their uncaught lives,
And streamed shoreward like a white armada
With heads reared back to strike and wings like knives.
As children we know of wildness and our hearts weep at how we are tamed, and how we tame those around us. We become safe within our walled fortress of cultures as we trade fierce swans for those grown up on white bread. Perhaps we should be feeding these swans now white bread, but the wonder bread which is our lives and our hearts. Abundant mana would then fall, freely given as we journey from castles of retreat and war. We would give up the false illusion that we can ever be safe. In turn, our wild hearts will break down our false sense of isolation, perhaps in violent and painful circumstances, and return us and all those longing to be free in our natures in all of nature.
What are you afraid of in nature? Your nature?