The Seagull

The Seagull

Or so he thought

With a zephyr

for a blanket

or a parachute

in the falling tears

of black clouds

Was a little hero to me

When the walls were white

Not like pretty snowflakes

But like a fallow room of polished fear.

He was fierce with softer feathers

That made him more fierce

Yet more soft too.

He wasn’t wearing little glasses there

To see his own owlish splendour

Or a swan that could glide

Over moonlight

All nesting in our

Mind’s eye.

All those nets were not yours

But The tangle of the flightless in missing parts

Or hearts gone to the dead graves of

Battle.

All those nets did not belong to you

But the greedy mess of defunct puffery.

You were flying all along

You were born in a breeze of

Might and your quills were not clipped.

You were already beautiful

That’s why I loved you.

And would finally remember

Everything.