Monday, December 12, 2011
Poem
Winter
The seagulls
have flown inland
from the sea,
squawking and carrying on,
complaining that life
is short,
that the weather
has changed for the worst,
that there are just
too few good flights
left in their
tired wings;
few things left
to fight for.
The seagulls
have flown inland
from the shore
with their feathers fluffed,
their breasts puffed;
what more have
they to live for—
beyond the garbage on
the rooftop next door—
squawking, crying there
are too few good
days anymore?
TS
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