I’ve been saving them up so I can fling them at your bedroom window like gravel from the hands of a lovesick fool…
Clear veins have crept through the gutters,
Hard frost has scrubbed at the brickwork,
At last we wake up to the gift of edges.
Rapidly snapping their wingtips back into place over their rumps
Like concert pianists flipping their tailcoats over the stool.
Herring gulls. Deadpan.
On the floor of the Battery museum –
A quiet cluster of spent shells,
Dinted and corroded, crude as coilpots.
And one white feather.
On the train I am persuaded to put down my pen
By the clouds, those tatters of pale, blinding radiance.
The galvanised watering can has rolled against the back fence, skittled by the night-long wind, but resting now. In the 7am gloom, it is the only gleam. A shoulder of silver light, pale and passive as a quarter moon.