Swan Upping on the Thames

Ned Randle

The pretty young women gather
in their eyrar around the bar
drinking their dry reds and sweet whites,
encircling their territory,
noisy, the antithesis of
mute, they attract the attention
of he who drifts by to take his
place at the helm of his table,
and he watches them with deft
imaginings, the smooth wine
flowing down their great silky
throats, and longs to see them in flight,
their majestic wedge, the spread of
their wings, their naked feet tucked up
tightly against their downy
bellies, each leg a bearer of
an ornate ring evincing title
held in trust by a housebound king.