When the Gulls Come

No waves on shingle

or a stranded fishing boat; only salt mist, 

a cemetery along the windy road, 

ice on the cold air, 

the morning sun just above the trees.

This time no pheasants hang 

outside the shop, no quiet; 

along the road, past the early Sunday walk,

a siren, a leashed dog, 

and the church 

ringing and ringing its bells. 

No quiet, not for the cemetery,

nor the dead. The salt is nothing here; 

instead, where the road turns

and the narrow pavement ends,

a hedge, the fence of farm. 

Still, the gulls come, 

settle in flocks on the ploughed field,  

bring mist. The siren, 

the church bells, bring the sea back; 

bring salt, 

smoked cod, the surge of the River Alde

that ends in grey, the cold sea. 

Cormorant

Sits low on the lake’s skin, 

its feathers black. Long neck, yellow

and white chin. 

Sea crow, corvus marinus, 

plunges into still water, paddles 

its webbed feet 

after fish, eels, sea snakes,

its wings rudders.

Rises with a fish in beak, swallows. 

Stands on a log 

in brown reeds, hangs its wings 

to dry. 

Fishguard Bay

Still water,

the sway of wings over a rock platform,

grey sand. High on the cliff

I sense the coldness 

you feel, alone.

Hard water,

not drinkable, 

like salt in a pile,

white like the sun

burning your eyes. 

We walk down the slope, 

past the few shops, smoke rising over homes,

moss on brick. 

There is no one else here 

that will understand.

Hard water,

like the night, 

charred wood,    

steep snow on peaks

burning your eyes. 

At the narrow beach 

thick mud, stones covered in weed,

a raven heavy in dress.

I see the cliffs we walked down,

the winding road.

Hard water,

black sky,

clouds like ash,

broken shells

burning your eyes. 

We walk up the slope, knocked 

in the wind, past reeds

rust-brown.

Tamed by the cutting air;

quietened. 

Hard water,

soft like a river,   

the distant sea, 

  no longer

burning your eyes.