Feathers

I keep a little bit of nature,
A pure shaft of snowy grace,
Which sits upon my desk
Where it holds pride of place.
There's millions of others like it
But just one belongs to me,
Abandoned by the roadside
For me to pick and keep.
The symbol of beauty,
Only touchable by one,
As it glides across the lake
The crisp, crystal swan.
Every night I hold
This magical emblem in my hand
And before I catch the train
Into Slumberland,
I close my eyes softly
And make a little wish,
A wish not upon a star
But upon the feather in my fist.
A wish that perhaps if I'm good,
Perhaps some day soon,
This grey cygnet can finally grow
And become a swan too.