Gulls at Evening, Late Summer

Gulls at Evening, Late Summer

Mid-August and just enough chop
in the harbour from the southwest wind
so it’s hard to distinguish between
feeding gulls, whitecaps

Even when they flock to rest briefly
in the lee of the spit, gulls still rise
lonely, deepen the sky’s blues with cold
white wings, sorrowing cries

And the turning tide brings no comfort—
as it falls, blue herons invade
the shallows and crows gather impatient
to pillage mudflats

Desolate now, gulls mob the damp shingle,
scurry from tangle to dark seaweed tangle,
wingtips stained black—throats raw,
urgent with night

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Blue Heron, Crows, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Summer, The Sea, The Wind and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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