Swan

Under the tarpaulin I expect to find

the remains of a battered tractor

three decades in this ditch,

its fucked plow all dints and dirt

rust chewed, almost again

organic, like the jurrasic mulch

refined to feed it.

Instead, on lifting the green grimed edge

and jumping back shouting “bollocks”

as a pool of rusty rain runs 
and ruins my jeans, I find

an almost perfect swan, save for a few

quills stolen perhaps and sharpened

by retrogressive poets,

neck broken in 15 places

leathery black feet dying scraped

deep grooves beneath a king’s belly

and eyes like lead shot dead,
but somehow also winking.