The Language of Swans



I was out walking the other morning when I bumped into my neighbour. He is an old man with a red face and a huge pot belly. He fell into step beside me. I slowed down because he was trotting.

”How did you enjoy your holiday?” I asked him.

”It was lovely,” he said.

”And the weather?”

”Sure it’s Summer in South Africa,” he grinned. 

”How were the cows?”

”They were the best,” he said. ”The bull stayed up on the hill all by himself. Not a bother on him.”

I slowed even more so that he would not have to trot, but he trotted.

”Look at them swans,” he said, and he pointed to the lake beside us.

”One morning when you were away,” I said, ”A whole flock of them rose form the lake and the hooting they made was unbelievable.”

”I listen to them all the time,” he said. ”I reckon they are chatting with each other.”

I smiled and nodded.

”I reckon they are arguing amongst themselves about whether to land on your lake or mine.”

We were almost at the entrance to the lane-way to his house.

”Have a good day,” he said, as he trotted happily in past his gate and then he called out, grinning to me,  ”Wouldn’t you love to know the language of the swans?”






Generally just Being. Nothing in particular, no claims to fame. I like gardening and the sea, nature, art in all forms from poetry to films and everything in between, and being in the company of my family.

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