Gull
'Why we have so many gulls in poetry these days
is a matter for reflection.'
—Peter Sansom, Writing Poems
I
On a wrinkled edge of rooftop cliff,
you might catch a lull,
see a flash of beauty in my withdrawal,
find comfort in shared silence.
But lose me to the frenzy of flapping wings
and our link is severed.
I am just like the others.
See the ripple of long-dead monsters
in my gait,
and in my eyes the slow attend
of monsters still to come.
II
August is the kindest month, discarded
chip paper from ungrateful hands, mixing
vinegar and ice cream, stirring
wings, a glutton’s screech.
Replenish this dinner plate.
Cover these streets in what you cannot eat,
keep us sweet
with cold sausage rolls,
crumbs from crisp packets.
An empty belly is a sharpened beak,
a talon-scrape across tender hands.
III
At low tide, see the squabble die.
Dusk brings with it an uneasy peace.
The well-oiled shock of this machine
reduced, now, to watching, waiting.
Yes, predators come to take our young,
the search for higher ground breeds tension,
but above the mew and choke we rise as one.
It is not impossible
to see us soar.
is a matter for reflection.'
—Peter Sansom, Writing Poems
I
On a wrinkled edge of rooftop cliff,
you might catch a lull,
see a flash of beauty in my withdrawal,
find comfort in shared silence.
But lose me to the frenzy of flapping wings
and our link is severed.
I am just like the others.
See the ripple of long-dead monsters
in my gait,
and in my eyes the slow attend
of monsters still to come.
II
August is the kindest month, discarded
chip paper from ungrateful hands, mixing
vinegar and ice cream, stirring
wings, a glutton’s screech.
Replenish this dinner plate.
Cover these streets in what you cannot eat,
keep us sweet
with cold sausage rolls,
crumbs from crisp packets.
An empty belly is a sharpened beak,
a talon-scrape across tender hands.
III
At low tide, see the squabble die.
Dusk brings with it an uneasy peace.
The well-oiled shock of this machine
reduced, now, to watching, waiting.
Yes, predators come to take our young,
the search for higher ground breeds tension,
but above the mew and choke we rise as one.
It is not impossible
to see us soar.
Published in That Lone Ship (2018)
Available to buy from Parthian Books
See a small feature on my poetry on The Gull's website here
Available to buy from Parthian Books
See a small feature on my poetry on The Gull's website here