Seagulls

On a cool, bright March morning,
winded climbing Seabraes lane,
I watched some blackbirds,

hedgerow shy but full of song,

digging and flicking, working soil.

Upslope two gulls brawled noisily,
heads bent low, necks extended,
heaving choking calls over last night’s
spoils: chips, cold and congealed.

Just as quick, an easeful calm restored,

two heads sideways turned –

curious looks at hurrying folk
as if to puzzle the clocking of the week.
Then, without warning, wings tucked tight,
one started treading, another stamping

beating time with furious feet,
like Michael Flatleys dancing
to inaudible reels of fiddle and flute.

It’s a ruse to bait earthworms

Jim said later, and laughed,
tapping mimics rain, brings worms  to water.
Jim liked gulls, fed a friendly male
each nesting spring and summer,
wrote poems and told me stories.
But that always surprised me; my gulls
were bruisers with stout yellow beaks
and round, unblinking raptor eyes.

Last week, I saw the herring gulls again,
squawking, hawking, rude name-calling.
Like street vendors shouting wares,

vying for notice in crowded markets.
Yet those dancing gulls came to mind,
and Jim who saw beyond, behind,
who never brushed aside what seemed
merely ugly, unpleasant, unseemly,
bringing a jeweller’s eye to catch the light.

© Gail Low