SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005

BEN BARTON

 

Now I understand Death (The Seagull)

 

 More a Marlowe morn than Chekhov

While the mist is hanging low.

not far shy of padded bed

My legs are stiffened

The clouds are red.

Refreshing walk

No need to call or to talk

my breath, a cloud

Fingers numb

a mind so proud

and people glum

The beauty of an English dawn.

The gulls fly over

yelling and vocal

This scene of urban nature

the flock; it swells

forcing to compel

they yell and fly through air

One by one they swoop

an arc of flight

From tree to roof top

beading eyes that glisten

seem so human in the breeze

In the morning haze

the day is cold

the sky ablaze.

The end is near

and here a death bed

the sky is red.

I walk and pass and rub

My hands together

cold blood and purpose

is stopped

Charges from the corner

The spectre; of a bus

The pneumatic brakes cry hissing

the doors fly open

Battering and mashing

The gull

Now still

but a leg still twitching

Guts and blood - a palette of gore

Seeping in concrete

and licking the curb

It whines in the mist

This morning has been kissed

With death.

And now the flock is left

Bereft; of a life

The death and pain in the morning

And the passing of God’s creature

Is ignored

The people worship apathy

They refute the obvious...

They are bored.

And tonight

There will be one less to fly over

This; a famous town

as the leaves fall limp around

the white cliffs of Dover.

And natures blood that morning bled

The chilly air.

The clouds are red.

 

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