Gull

 

Gull

 

With a fire in its eye about to expire,

a broken wing, a bicycle tyre,

you wonder if it knew the sky was lost.

There will come a gnawing frost,

clenched hunger, gut crush, faded gloss,

while the waste skip waits open jawed

for a casual toss.

The cyclist doesn’t look back,

disappears around the corner, rucksacked,

hearing those brittle bones crack,

a caped crusader with no crusade,

no cape, another’s trauma to be replayed,

burned forever onto the mind's DVD.

Now, haunted by fate like Spallner,

and too late, it watches Bradbury’s Crowd

gather, some hushed, others loud,

who gawp and point out its distress,

taking bets, jaw,  jabber, second guessing

how long it will be, then, finally move on

given that they were not the ones.