seagulls mewling like spoilt kits — do we all cry for what is not
for what perhaps has never been
searching for our answers in buckets full of sodden lees
what heartless fog muddied the gypsy woman’s message
what reading did I miss back then
that I failed to act when fickle chance came knocking at my cottage door
tugging the bed-clothes high and tight to block the seabirds’ screams
I shut my eyes and clenched my teeth
bound my mind with hoops of steel and aimed for endless sleep
unknown, unwanted, then came Change, batter’d down my bricked-up door
she refused all nonsense, reason too,
cutting through my bonds with fire, she had her lusty way with me
to fight was useless, my will still shackled, body weak, my mind quite numb
as she prodded, poked and chivvied
to drag me from my wintry grey through to the chilly blue of spring
shivering in the liminal, an empty space neither sea, nor shore, nor safe
I looked to left, I looked to right
I can’t go back, I told myself, I prayed for a sign of hope
it came in the form of a feather that fell a step from my shoe
I faltered, staggered, actions slow
stooped to pluck it from my path, a type of wonder in my breath
I blew softly on the downy fluff, ran my finger down the spine
for I knew it to be more than a feather
this quill I held in my hand, this delicate treasure of mine
I raised my prize as high as I dared, right up to the pledge of the day
where, through a gap in the cloud,
gleamed a jigger of hope in the sight of the seagulls at play
small steps at first, testing the way, I started to walk, I started to plan
overlaying the past with the present at last
while way up above, wingtips burned black, the gulls played dare with the sun
Photo credit: Getty Images/Srdjan Stefanovic
