Gulls Poem by Nicholas Green

They are the shrill fingers of the sea.
They are beyond the briny pale.

Their excitement is made of salt.
They fly on pure salinity.

They have had to shout over the
Waves so long that now they always shout.

But this is just the sea's élan.

They have clouds in their wings,
And the ghosts of sailors
Deafened by the main.

A gang jostles the air.
They must suddenly return.
The claw and the beak of the sky
Insist on it.

The waterproof sea awaits.

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