Sometimes, rarely, black swans would pass over the town, and the boy, looking up, would say a poem. There were no poems about black swans, but he would think of other skies, other birds, a land of snow. Words possessed his mind: a meaningless magic.
Grey goose and gander
Waft your wings together
(Randolph Stow, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea, 3)