Why do they laugh at me? Guffaw until hoarse
as I walk through the fog?
Little copper feet strut across woodwork,
sherbet white feathers extend, retract.
A mob stands on soggy grass, wheezing
like old men on twenty a day.
Some yawn, open orange castanet beaks,
a boring morning for those who remain.
Clouds turn a grimmer grey shade
over me and these gulls.
Two of them spring up, higher than every tree,
wings glide through air as satin through fingers.
Tiny eyes will continue to scour this park
for another stranger to deride.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
Why do they laugh at me? Guffaw until hoarse
as I walk through the fog?
Little copper feet strut across woodwork,
sherbet white feathers extend, retract.
A mob stands on soggy grass, wheezing
like old men on twenty a day.
Some yawn, open orange castanet beaks,
a boring morning for those who remain.
Clouds turn a grimmer grey shade
over me and these gulls.
Two of them spring up, higher than every tree,
wings glide through air as satin through fingers.
Tiny eyes will continue to scour this park
for another stranger to deride.
Written: November 2012 and March 2013.
Explanation: A poem written for university about seagulls. A work in progress, likely to change slightly over the next few weeks/months. Also available on my WordPress blog.
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