Gulls hang in the onshore breeze.
A tilt of deft wings and they glide back and forth.
They scan the crowded shore in search of food held by the unwary, the distracted, the child enjoying a seaside feast.
A swoop, a caw, and battered fish is grabbed from the hands of one distracted for a short moment or less.
The gulls used to follow the herring and snatch from the vast shoals which flowed around the nations shore.
There are still those which follow the few trawlers who eke a living from depleted stocks.
But it’s easier to pick from humans unwise enough to sup outside with little regard for precocious scavengers.
Poem by stuartcturnbull, picture from lizzyliz on Pixabay
This poem is one written over the summer of 2023 2022. It is part of a suite of poems that considers UK history and life from roughly the end of the Second World War through to an unknown future.
The suite's title is from the opening line of the fourth stanza in William Blake's 1808 poem Jerusalem.