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D. A. Prince

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Gull

You cannot look away. You cannot tear your eyes
from muscular percussion, from the hammering
down down down of his bill. You might take in
those webbed pink feet anchoring his weight,
that back of gleaming steel, his broad chest
feathered salt-white, how he works from the neck.
You might recall this, afterwards.
But now, precision: the piercing smash
of crab shell on stone, the splay of claws;
how each blow splinters more, more tough casing,
how he concentrates to scatter
all the life out, to shatter useless armour.
You hope the children look away - they might
be seeing this, storing it up for nightmares
like television news. You hope he's not their gull
who swooped for fish and chips, whose ka-ka-calling
woke you at six to watch black fishing boats
slide down grey shingle into the sun's eye.
Now it's too late not to know how killing feels,
how each crash drives this yellow bill deeper,
pounding pounding pounding. Later,
you might remember the estuary mud, its slow plopping,
the mesh and flow of seeping rivulets; a backdrop
familiar as summer. But you won't forget his beak's scarlet spot
in, out, in, out, drawing you down
or how you recognise his single-minded
greedy will to kill.

D A Prince lives in Leicestershire. Her third pamphlet, Keeping in touch, was published by Pikestaff Press in 2002.

Page(s) 48

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