The gull

The gull


You think you are kind, tossing me a cold chip,

For me to swoop on, as I soar the sea wall.

Maybe you feel some guilt, for taking that cod

From out of the sea, and yes, out of my beak.

The batter looks so lovely and yellow and crisp.

Stuff your face full of chips, I really don’t care.

Come hell or high water, the gulls will still soar, 

but somehow I doubt I'll be seeing you there.

 

 

Notes:

OUP Zoom