Gull was found in a squall

Gull was found in a squall,

coopied on seawall, feathers torn.

One leg crooked, one eye socketed.

Don’t stare, love, I’m still flyin’!

His gut a museum: fish scales, tin rings,

plastic worn smooth as pearls.

Gull came late each spring, 

moulted midwinter.

Still he circles trawlers,

cries above landfill,

cracked but good enough. 

Gull witnessed flocks thin

to grey sky, cod collapse, 

beaches melting to glass.

Gull didn’t turn away. 

This was his elderhood:

suffering feathered into

a different sort of time.

The world rotted and burned,

yet Gull lifts into the wind,

a crooked shadow

dragging light through cloud.

Hope was not triumph

but this: Gull ruined

but still moving.

Gull crossing the horizon,

one eye on the waves,

one eye a void,

both open –