I had Chain Dog out, the other day, as usual. And, as usual, she was snuffling around in her places and relieving herself in her favoured spots as I, in turn, stood and stared into the middle distance. Waiting for her to finish.
However, I never really 'zone out' at such times. And I never lose focus on the land around me. I'm constantly checking my surroundings.
And that's how I spotted the white. Hundred and fifty yards away. Out on the bog. Down towards the river. It wasn't there yesterday.
I didn't know what it was. I decided to get some glass on it, at first. But, I soon realised my little binoculars weren't made or meant for such long distance scrutinising. I'd have to go down there.
And so, I did. Putting Chain Dog away, I went through one gate. Over another. And began walking straight down across the bog. Directly toward this white thing.
It appeared to be about the right size for a white, plastic sack. Laying there, caught up in the juncus rushes. I told myself that's what it must be. Nothing else made sense.
But, then; This was Pat's land. Pat' the fastidious. Pat' the 'just so'. Pat' dropping a sack on his land and just walking away? Get to fuck! It's never gonna happen!
And it hadn't, of course. It was a swan. Laid out as if by the care of loving hands. Flat on its back. Wings perfectly folded to its sides. Neck stretched. Head back. A tableaux of perfect repose.
It had only been dead hours. Swans don't fly in the dark. It had only been light so long. I checked the legs ~ sadly, no rings. I lifted the head, to see the beak: Yeppers. Mute Swan. A Cob. Male. Somebody's life partner. These swans, it's said, pair for life.
I felt gutted for the Pen. The female bird. Now she was a widow. White widow? I doubt she'd get the irony.
I thought about a guy who I know would have seen this as a gift from the gods. Would've joyfully slung this banquet over his shoulder and strode homewards, grinning. There's nine pounds of meat on a swan, so they tell me.
That's just not my way. I had the fleeting thought that some bastard had shot this thing, for shits and giggles. Then, recognising there was nothing on its breast but a mud stain. Just a spot of blood on what would be the bridge of its nose?
The Rat Catcher in me kicked in. I looked around. And up. Up at the twin power lines that cross above the bog here. Damn.
The swans always fly north to south, earlier in the day. One lough to the other. This bird was laying just south of those cables.
I imagined it: " Well, love, shall we go down to the southern lough, as usual? " The whooping sound of their powerful wing beats as they traveled through the air ~ probably approaching twenty five miles an hour?
Then, he was gone. Imagine her, seeing him fall. Turning in a wide circle. Coming back. Landing on the nearby bog and wandering up to him.
" Love? Get up, love! Why are you doing this? It's me, look ..... Please ....! "
I saw her, a couple of days later. A white. Two hundred yards away. Just a gleaming white spot between the grays of the flooded bog. Hunched and still in the shallows beside the river.
'Prince' once sung to us of, " What it sounds like, when doves cry ". Well, I've looked out across the bog here. And I've empathised. I know what it feels like, when swans cry.
In silence. And alone.
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