castle gun bangs one
pigeons lift, gulls unconcerned
gulls. not seagulls. gulls
gull
Living with a poet
The nets on the quayside are not the wiles with which I charmed you. They’re nets. They’re not the fisherfolk’s dreamcatchers that took our ambition. They’re nets.
The dinghy bobbing on the incoming tide is not your spirit that soared when you first saw me at the party. It’s a boat. It’s not our hopes and dreams before the love tide turned. It’s a boat.
The gulls that swoop down on the flecks of foam are not poembirds. They’re gulls. They are not lyric snatchers from the frothing deep. They’re gulls.
My heart is not – my heart is not a cartoonish pink, arrow-pierced. It’s my heart. It’s not, I’m afraid, any words that you may say. It’s my heart. And yes, it’s broken, but it will mend.
Open curtains
Open curtains protest moon-white purity to neighbours.
Below, gulls laugh at foxes.
As always.
Seaside experience
His slow black car was spattered with green-white gullmuggings and smelled of fish. The thuggish depositor eyed him and cawed.
Inspired by a twitter conversation with @ropoem and @TangledFox
Drums
The gulls down the chimney sounded discordant brass, the foxes ripped cardboard with a wettened yell, the crack of dawn drummed
Ah, Dunedin summer days!
Ah, Dunedin summer days!
At four in the morn the sweet cry of the gull,
The snappy smack of fist on cheekbone as the last revellers chatter and twinkle their way back home,
Backslapping, snappy smacking, gulls crying,
Oh, my Edinburgh days.
simonsalento 