And brazenly, the seagull swoops
to the ground, flying in like a fighter jet,
with beady eyes, wings the colour of clouds.
Its clarion cry is pitched against the rumble
of some machine as it searches
among the desiccated fridges,
a rusted TV set, the rotting innards
of discarded plastic bags. The call it gives
is one of seaweed and kelp, the sting
of salt on the wind as the tide rushes in.
But here it is, on terrain thick with broken bottles,
sticks and mouldy fishing nets, the sickly stench
of waste a weight in the summer air.
It is one of life’s scavengers, the garbage can
of birds, ungainly looking, brash, and yet
can glide across the skyline with a grace
we cannot share, rooted as we are to the land.
@2014 Louise Hastings