Monday, 4 April 2016
April Poems 2016/04
A gull catches the last ray of afternoon sun
slipping between the clouds
a sky-salmon darting through rapids
to find his way home.
A hundred miles from the nearest coast
it relies on scraps from the municipal tip,
the council duck pond, the school playground
where the children are no longer allowed crisps
but suck at glowing nicotine sticks
behind the netball pitch.
Chips outside the betting shop
where the Belisha beacon winks, winks;
rain-wet egg mayonnaise from the supermarket bins
and yesterday's chow mein
thrown up in the gutter with that last, bad pint.
Why is it always the last pint that's bad?
Why not the first, when Dad can shake his head
and still find his way home?