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The sun is setting

Clouds hang pink and grey.

All is till;

But for the gulls.

It seems nobody told them about times & seasons,

Their hack and cackle does not rest at night,

It does not modify across the day,

And here, within our perfect English garden,

I hear

Finger nails tear down a dark chalk board,

The shriek of an arthritic hinge,

A rabbit eviscerated by a fox

Yet

Each would be more welcome

For at least,

One off,

They would cease in time,

But gulls...

Brian Hick August 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 2024