Sunday 4 November 2012


Why do black headed gulls leave 
Me mournful? Circling clad in winter 
Plumage, rapaciously feeding
Against a heavy sky, braving the cold. 
Colours fading like their seasonal feathers
Leaving the scene melancholy flat 

An empty canal side distantly wind rippled; 
Rib-like foliage submits to inevitable fate
Whilst the still green stalks mutter, 'gloves,
Give us gloves!' How cold do the pink legs
Of the determined joggers look? Their hats
Worn, like the white fluff of the gulls.

A cloud goes bang; mistaken early firework
Too early, too grey, too chemical red.
But the group of gulls used to the quiet
Dissipate to perching safety to survey
Drear water; suddenly the air is empty
Not even a gull to enervate the gloom.

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