Story Poems 3

A mother duck sat on her eggs

    To keep them safe and warm.

In springtime, as you children know,

    We still get winter storms.


The cold winds blew, the sun came out,

    The days passed one by one,

And then the rain came tumbling down,

    Soon followed by the sun.


Poor mother duck!  She sat and sat

    For many lonely hours.

Then with the warmth of coming spring,

  Out came the springtime flowers.


As mother duck sat on her eggs

    In spring’s nice warming sun,

Her eggs hatched out, and babies came -

    Ten ducklings, one by one.


How proud she was to see them all.

    She’d love them every one

And for many weeks she’d care for them,

    Until her job was done.

One duckling seemed a little odd -

    Well different from the rest -

And what did all the others do?

    Well surely you’ll have guessed.


They laughed at him and called him names;

    They made him feel quite bad.

They said he was an ugly duck -

    And made him feel so sad.


The weeks flew by and up he grew,

     A most unhappy bird:

“An ugly duck”, “not loved at all!” -

     Such sad and hurtful words.


He soon left home and went away

    To where he could be free,

For listening to those spiteful words

    Was hard, you will agree.


He stood upon a river bank

    And saw some swans fly past;

Such lovely birds with outstretched necks -

    Their beauty unsurpassed.


“Such elegance and grace,” thought he,

      As they flew across the sky,

And the ugly duck felt very sad

    And gave a mighty sigh.


He wandered down the river bank

    As unhappy as could be;

Then, reflected in the flowing stream,

    Well, just what did he see?

He saw exactly what he was:

    A duck?  Oh, no, no, no!

A gorgeous bird looked back at him

    With feathers white as snow.


“I’m not an ugly duck at all!

    I’m a lovely swan!” he cried,

And a feeling of pure happiness

    Welled up from deep inside.


The other swans came flying back

    And welcomed their new friend,

And here we’ll leave him, loved by all,

     For my poem’s at its end.


Copyright on all my poems



By Josie Whitehead

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