The poem on this page changes every couple of months.
All week I’ve been waking from a dream
where I have barely escaped
from a jackknifing lorry,
the free fall over a cliff edge
and I keep telling myself it’s nothing to do with
the seagull we tried to save
by lifting its sagging head from the sea,
drying its wings, teasing strings
of seaweed from its feathers and feet
and wrapping it in your windcheater,
or with why I needed to believe
that when it raised its head and followed my voice
that this time I might reach over
and coax its feathers to plump and splay,
that it might shake its wings open
so the only cold I’d feel was sea spray.
The Seagull is from The Return of the Buffalo which will be published in 2012.