HERRING GULLS IN BETWEEN THE LINES

“Majestic” I said,
gazing at a herring gull gliding on the strand
and interrupting my heated confidence,
“the biggest kind, look, black-tipped wings”,
although I didn’t know if it was the biggest, really,
but I needed to pretend some detachment while telling
of devil and the desert and love’s labours in vain
with an obsession and lingering one could think insane…
well then, while you were stopping to give me your advice
the bird seemed just to alight in between the lines,
“horrible creatures”, you said, “ just bloody predators,
all they do is kill and eat whatever they meet,”
“Yes”, I agreed “but I like them”, still feeling heated,
“I like them even if I know they are butchers of sea and sky,
I like the strength in the double sword of their beak
with that red spot like a splotch of berry or blood,
the fiery touch of those who are both determined and mad,
I like their eyes and their cawing in which flash
the hallucinations of a Van Gogh with its bright nails of grass,
yes, they are predators both straightforward and opportunistic
not like me who linger and chant words that are uselessly mystic,
I like them at dawn on the roof, their prey in their mouth, swishing
and shuffling about like secret agents in minimum noise,
not like me, no, in between these lines, while I keep raving
in sub-Hamletic poise.