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The Seagulls — A Poem
Reminding me of the space between memory and imagination
I hear a Pitter-Patter on the roof.
I think it’s rain. Then I realise,
no, it’s the awkward waddle-flap of seagulls.
They are here more often in the autumn and winter.
I guess the cold winds coming off the sea can be too strong even for a seagull in winter,
so inland they come.
A seagull shrieks, setting off a chorus of crows; The sky is a noisy place, even when the warblers have all migrated —
swallows, swifts, martins and nightingales exiting stage south for warmer breezes.
I used to mourn the summer as we left it behind for colder, greyer, and darker times.
Going into winter felt like some kind of deep penance I was forced to perform,
that would torture me every time.
Now, not so much.
Or, even, at all.
For, with it, it brings much needed time for restoration,
introspection, and the re-ordering of my world.
The winter’s not easy.
It’s never easy.
And I will never apologise for saying so.
But, because of the challenge,
When Spring…
