What are they doing, the gulls?
Rising in clouds from the marsh,
Random birds dive and twist,
Spiralling down to the water.
Every morning they perform
Their jerking, unexpected dance.
Great beating waves of white
Disturbing the flow of wings.
The falling darts caressing the water
Rejoining the flock moments later.
Tiny crabs or minute fish, I think.
Anything that moves below the surface,
Ruffling the gleaming sheen.
An aerial circus, whose daily repeats
Ensure continuity of life.
Meanwhile, we watch and fade.
Finding our place, eventually,
Below that other green surface,
Whose creeping tide of white,
Close to the tower,
Mimics the white wings above the marsh.
From "A Kind Of Heaven" by Richard Maslen (click to go back).
