Rolling slow and late, London bound,
The coach, turning, gives me briefly
A dozen seagulls judder hectic
In a pinch of air between a post-war
Semi and a Methodist church.
In that concrete channel, beaks blunted,
They trampoline the air, rhythmless
Over a thin, shit-strewn pathway,
Like shook sand at a beach bombing
Or the egg timer of a furious cook.
A wild breach, awkward and stunning,
The mute music of their jolting scales.
Dancing with incommunicable knowledge,
Incautiously caught and locked white hot
In a lonely spot they briefly bloat.
Then, a refuse lorry, blocking all, passes.
Green sacks slump, lavishly stuffed and
Wind-whipped, heaving like a load of lungs.
But I saw a dialect scattered on the air,
And am sewn silent now, in passing.
Christian Anthony
No comments:
Post a Comment