Outside the windows of our London flat
the city's waking to the cry of gulls,
escapees from the terrors of the sea,
converts to the urban thermals found
arising from the concrete and the glass.
They've made their way inland by using maps
etched on the liquid compasses embedded
in the secret places of their brains.

The river Thames acts as their certain road
from sea to city, as these migrants flock
to soar above the streets in crying crowds
mirroring the screeching crowds below.
Despite the curving beauty of their wings
as they hang in London's fetid air,
we want to persecute, to send them back
to dangerous seas they will encounter there.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: