#32: Old Gull

Old Gull

A blind dove, I saw, above me, at the rail
There, in gray, she stands
Each day, aloof.

Each day, she weeps into the sea--
That slovenly maiden who sips angels' tears--
And the horizon, though obtuse, not cruel,
Brushes dry her cheek with soft, gold hands.

Below her perch, old gulls like me
Toil, and sing, and meet,
Each day, God's bespoke abuse.
For those like me, how slow rolls this fleet,
And how sweet, each night,
Our meager, sunburnt sleep...

I've heard say
some drinking men have met
The nascence of our lore
In sinking dreams,
While those whom fate detests
Lose patience, sigh,
And, too soon, look away.

(c) Hannah Six, 2013

#32: Old Gull