|Photo by Peter Kenny|
A gull dead on the old slipway,
its whiteness shabby, neck snapped,
pale eyes expressionless, remote.
A gull stone-dead at Bordeaux bay:
a length of fishing line has trapped
both its legs. Debris from a boat.
Gulls live short lives, brutal and grim.
It’s hard to mourn something like that,
or care; to not be disdainful.
Dying entangled limb with limb,
helpless, starved, is a cruel way.
That its death would have been painful
beyond belief, makes the heart bleed.
A piteous and pathetic end,
here on the slip where I found it,
moves me to, gently, lay seaweed
over it, like a wreath, and bend
to gather stones to place around it.