So Long

Today the gulls have come down
out of the north wind and sit
restlessly on the water
in the lee of the city.
Are you listening to them,
their sea of melancholy
voices as monotonous
as the waves? Why does their old
distress remain in their throats
so long, taste so fresh to them?
And who do I lament who
refills their eyes with winter,
this flock of minor poets
writing the poems I cannot?

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, Charlottetown, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, The Sea, The Sky, The Wind, Time, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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