Creative Works
A bit like Tai Chi
The sea moves rhythmically
Ebbing and flowing
The Seagull
That yodelled
Outside the window
Of the B and B in Torquay,
Had a yellow bill,
With a red spot underneath,
That looked like a blob of ketchup.
His eyes were bloodshot like mine,
The morning after I swam
In the sea with no goggles on.
He strutted his stuff, puffed
Out his chest to impress,
The gaggle of gulls,
Hovering round him.
Was it this braggadocio,
That plopped guano,
On to my dad’s grey hair?
“By gum son,” he exclaimed,
“It’s a good job cows don’t fly.”
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