Swan - A Work In Progress

Who knows if the swan is happy?
The long wand of neck that leads
like a question mark up to her beak
might not make it so.

Whose to say when she stretches
her wings, flailing them with grace
against the sky she is not beckoning
God to remove her from the river

where she daily roams. Do the fish
she plucks from the flimsy water
satisfy her palette or does she crave
the texture of something new.

Does she ever question why so many
share so little of her colour?
and why rats can swim as fast
as they run. Does she envy their talent?

Has she ever stopped by the reeds
not for shade but to hear how the wind
brings them to sing. And the song
is it one of melancholy or joy?

When children throw her stones
does she swan to where they stand
hoping to swallow their gift
so to choke and sink and join

the ghost that glides beneath her,
mirroring her every move,
who never stops staring back
at those perfect black lonely eyes.

Work in progress. further evidence of expermination. Anthing work, probally much that does not. This may be the first poem i have written that has not mentioned "I" be it universal or indivudual. So in some ways a small succsess.

the ghost that glides beneath her,
mirroring her every move,
who never stops staring back
at those perfect black lonely eyes.

looking for help/suggestion especially around this part. Hopefully it is clear that i am describing her relfection, but feel i have lost it slightly due to having to take out a third "her" in the last two lines, as i felt it was to many.. is it clear that it is the ghost/relfection who is staring back up at her from beneath the water surface??

I am aware the poem may come accress as a little to rhetoric espeically the 4th stanza, which i consider the be a little weak.

Whilst downstairs chuffing on a ciggarette it occured to me that the poem might be better if is were to shift from a human angle to a more honest perspective of questioning, i,e from the swan itself, i have lost the four line form for this one, but i think i am liking it more, it has been hurriedly posted and will no doubt require some hefty editing but all the same i thought i would offer an alternative angle and hopefully hear if it works any better of maybe even less.....

An Ode to the ghost beneath me.

Who knows if I am happy?
The long wand of my neck
that leads like a question mark
up to my beak might not mean it so.
Whose to say when I stretch
my wings, flailing them with grace
against the sky I am not beckoning
God to magic me elsewhere
anywhere but this river where
mangled metal harbours against
mossy rocks like storm ruined ships.
The fish I pluck from the river,
do nothing to satisfy my thirst
for something other than slippery
entrails and pricking bone.
Why is it so many share so little
of my colour? Even my kin bare
feathers of everyday grey.
Do they know I often stop by the reeds
not for shade but to hear the wind
bring them to song.
When children throw me stones
I know too well it is not bread
for I long to choke on their gift
and sink beneath the surface
to join the ghost that glides
beneath me,
mirroring my every move
and who stares at me with
eyes as perfect and lonely as mine.