The Seagull
Far from the commuter’s rush
we watched the skyline linger;
the ferry’s lace of water like trails of
morning pinched in jet stream.
I tried to balance
sneaking my hands into your pockets to keep warm
while you took photographs of America
and a little lopsided, a little drunk
with the quiver of sleep still in my stare
I leant into you and over your shoulder.
He followed us, solitary surfing
on the promise of fish, the salmon pink sky
delicate enough for his finger tips –
wistful, wanting but lazy still; these
beginnings of days where his orange feet
outstretched. Libertine or refugee,
we could not decide
as he flew into the
silhouette of our embrace.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Tue 16th Apr 2013 14:03
Thank you Cynthia - for your time and comments. Perhaps I should let go of the punctuation for a while... the pace is important to me but sometimes I do get tangled up! Am hoping to hear you read at Sale tonight so be nice to say hello. x