The seagull glides across the sky.
Wings barely move. Only when
jostled by the wind do they slightly shift.
Clouds above hang heavy and grey;
what might predictably be called ominous.
Except the fear these clouds contain
comes from the converse fact of the sun
—not in view due to being on the other side
of the house and free of hindrance from cloud—
shining directly upon them; with this
meeting of opposites they are lit with an importance
from which the perceived menace takes its strength.
As though a great Heavenly battle of pagan design
will soon ensue and in the process
engulf in flame the entire world beneath.
The serendipitous emphasis of lighting promises
death, destruction, carnage, the whole bloody lot.
But the seagull cares not for any of this;
instead it hovers amongst the shifts of unsettled air,
hoping to find below the evidence of such a type
as those steeply inclined to place scraps
the likes of meat and not just mere bread
out for sky scavengers such as it to descend
ravenously upon.
Failing that a broken bin bag
with insides spilling out as intestines might
or an average-sized rat not so fast on its feet will do.

With thanks to Max van den Oetelaar for use of the header image  (licensing).

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