I’ve talked before about my occasional hypnagogic writing. Here’s something I wrote a couple of years ago. It came to me in a bitter old man’s voice:
I had a girl, killed by a swan.
The mist was rising–
green as the growing heart of a secret
green as unfurling chestnut leaves
green as the new scum on the lake
the mist was rising
and their wings rose with it
white, strong-smelling angel wings
and them swans blowing and honking like the trumpets at the end of the world.
It was the end of her world.
She picked flowers
violets, new and silky, purple as an emperor’s cloak
and ran ahead, into that mist, for more
and god’s angels from their green mist
flew forth and hit her–
eyes and throat, and twice–
two beats of those heavy crocus-coloured bills
two, I heard them–
on the drum of her breastbone
and her little heart stopped and she died
and we had swan pie for dinner but I ate none of it.