| Introduction When Swans’ Fly Home was written in 2009 during a quiet moment of reflection on the changing seasons and the unexpected power of memory; although spring faithfully returns each year, certain sights in nature still catch us by surprise. For me, the sight of swans in flight became inseparable from thoughts of someone who remained close in memory, long after time had moved on. I have chosen not to alter the original poem because it captures those emotions exactly as they were felt. It reminds me that nature has an extraordinary way of awakening memories we thought had quietly settled. The companion poem was written many years later, not to replace those feelings, but to acknowledge how they have changed. Time has a way of softening sorrow without diminishing love, allowing remembrance to become less about longing and more about gratitude. Together, these two poems reflect the quiet truth that some people never really leave us. They become part of the seasons, returning unexpectedly with the familiar sights, sounds and rhythms of the natural world. |
| When Swans’ Fly Home Some things you expect to see, For you know they are to be there, Others however can play hide and seek, With your mind, and yet still ensnare, You when you are unknowing, I look upon the meadows and my joys are renewed, Lazy hazy days are again arriving, Gently caressing my thoughts and refreshing my dour mood, For once more do l look upon the approaching spring, With a pleasure unbeknownst to me for some time, Yet l ask myself, when l knew of the eventual return, Why does it puzzle me this way, this time? How many seasons need to pass before one learns? Perhaps, it is different, because l am familiar, With her ways, through time l have learned to trust, And yet oh how l have missed her, Now, she arrives to my mind again in coloured canvas, Pastures again are full in flourish, awaiting your gentlest of rays, Whilst l too, seek solace from the passing. Of time and feel the warming embrace felt from your days, Helping to ease away my longest of aching, That the wintry seasons can bring to a lonesome man, Who has looked out onto fields of desolation, Trying to understand, oh to simply understand, Why he did not see beforehand, this confusing emotion, Yet who am l to question the passing of the seasons, All l know to be true, Is that spring again is here, and with it the new ripening, Of time from out of the lazy hazy blue, Some things you expect to see, For you know they are to be there, Others however can play hide and seek, With your mind, and yet still ensnare, You, when you are unknowing, When l see swans flying, I think of you. © Rory Matier 2009 |
| When Swans Return The Second Verse The seasons still keep faithful time, As they have always done, They ask for neither our consent, Nor wait for anyone. The meadows wake in gentle green, The hedgerows softly sing, And once again across the sky, The white wings carry spring. I used to watch with searching eyes, As though they held the key, To moments time had tucked away, Beyond the reach of me. I wondered why a simple sight, Could stir the heart so deep, Or wake the quiet corners where, Old memories still sleep. The swans knew nothing of my thoughts, Nor all the years gone by, They simply followed ancient paths, Across the changing sky. Yet somehow every graceful flight, Would gently bridge the years, Not opening forgotten wounds, But washing clean old tears. I’ve learnt that love need not remain, A prisoner of the past, For those who leave their mark upon, The heart are built to last. They live within familiar songs, The scent of summer rain, The morning mist on waking fields, And swans that come again. So now I stand with quiet smile, Beneath the open blue, And every spring, as white wings pass… I still think of you. Only now, The memory brings a grateful heart, Instead of one that mourns What never could come true. © Rory Matier 2026 |
| Some poems are written for a moment in time. Others quietly wait for time to answer them. Echoes Through the Garden – The Second Verse revisits poems first written years ago, not to rewrite or replace them, but to continue the conversation. Seen through the eyes of a gardener, a naturalist and the passing of years, each original poem is accompanied by a new companion piece, offering fresh understanding shaped by experience, seasons and the quiet lessons the garden has taught. Together, they become two verses of the same story—one written then, the other written now. |
The Gardener's Curious Journal 