there’s a Seagull somewhere
¶ 1
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There’s not a ripple –
not a single solitary crack
in the duplicated sky;
no skewered sheen
no fissured fjord
no swallowed swell;
hard to believe this saline mirror
is the toe-tipped Atlantic
that normally beats with brackish boots
upon Erin’s western inlets
¶ 2
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What a further delight then
when shoreline scavenging
to find a punctured relic
in amongst the teeming late evening activity
of rummaging crabs
and ravenous sand hoppers
(my bare pasty legs the top dish
of the fast fading day)
¶ 3
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So just along the high tide line
marked by opaque – yet purple hued
jilted jellyfish
I find my own seashore stash salted away –
a beach ball, barely bloated
and home to a number of crept in crawlies
and crushed crustaceans
¶ 4
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But I’m pumped enough
as is the ossified orb
for me to hook it up
from it’s plinthed position
atop a shoring shell
and to cradle it on my instep
and to flip it, flick it, flap it, flop it
upon lumpen limbs and harried heel
all under the setting sun –
to my audience of one:
a solitary seal
interested in my cock-eyed keepy-ups
only for as long as his next meal
swims into range
¶ 5
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I bided my time
at this seductive seascape
drinking in the cocktailed sunset;
¶ 6
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With dusk doused
I bade a sad farewell
to my fickle flippered fan
and departed for suburbia
to the cacophany
of the feathered coastal clan
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