Deja Sea Vu (2007)
There’s seagulls wheeling, screaming to be fed,
a squall that dredges pictures from the deep;
Dandy annuals, sand and candyfloss,
flapping with postcard wings in my head.
My grandmother’s dead now. They’re sent she said
when there’s a storm at sea, and yet they stay,
heckling overhead. No sign of going away.
Their surprise tide of cries wracks at the mind’s shore
where all my past sandcastles are undone
into the sea with deckchairs, donkey-rides
and the pier, as thunder clacks at the door.
They squat on the park grass like conductors.
Ink runs from their eyes into new meanings.
Their wings are postmarked, feathered into blur.