Zeus Among the Bullrushes

Wing-lovely,
and a long drift from the far hill
over rusty rushes 
and our frog-squawking peace
comes a strange black-bill. 

Heron-scattering trumpeter. 
Green-glider of reflections.

Pushing a silver Vee 
at my white swan,
I think he’s looking for his Leda, 
and I see Agamemnon dead,
whole kingdoms fallen, my heart 
already burning at his perfect head.

And I wonder
how it will be  
for earthbound mortals
who lack unfreighted dreams
and other holy things  
to see such feathered majesty
unfold from trembling wings, 
wind ’round her fleeing neck, 
and float up on her back
 
She saw me watching 
from behind a tree, where I hid 
for reasons of delicacy,
and a kind of wonder. 

Then, to my surprise 
he took her with his bill
and swiftly drove her pink eyes
and speechless beak under, 
’til she spread her wet wings 
white, and ghostly still.

Well, I am a lover, too, 
and easily roused 
by the murder of my sentiment,
with no use for fragile gods,
nor any would-be Zeus 
on small ponds, inventing history
without consummation. 

She floats alone in moonlight now, 
her arched and lovely head 
glancing oddly 
at his cold and broken bed 
among the reeds and fronds.