It does not grow easier,
this shift to winged other,
this stepping of flesh to gradated feather ─ 

Across the Dyfi estuary charcoal clouds may veil the wind turbines ─ I know this,

There’s a shortcut under the railway arches, but it’s risky. 
You must stay alert to the flurry, coo and squawk of pigeons 
coupling in the iron pediments above your head; dance your way 
in girder-dim light, around, between and over piles of guano, 

And now, driving the road alone, I think of those swans
and how their fragile bond with a water-filled field
might be broken by too much rain, or too little rain,