STEPHEN WILSON

All year long I’ve been waiting
on the promise of a light green
cocoon whose size increased in
almost imperceptible increments
its tepals unable to free themselves
yet always on the point of budburst
as if something inside couldn’t
quite prise them open, wasn’t
strong enough to force their hand
or didn’t know its own best interest
until now, early September
when after daybreak —
the white arch of a bird’s wings
nesting alone on a terminal bract
mute, unmarked, belonging
I presume to Her Majesty the Queen
— Seigneur of the Swans.

From the collection Fluttering Hands.

Photo by the author

Italian translation by Silvia Pio