My gold, My land.

I almost forgot about this poem I wrote a couple of months ago, inspired by my dissertation project 'Responses of the Herring Gull and Feral Pigeon to wind flows in urban areas'. We label species as pests, and I wanted to consider another point of view...

Red. Centred energy with a hazed frame.

Alert. Vinegar teases my taste buds

and as I inhale, salty clouds of heaven inhabit my lungs,

Ripples echo from Poseidon’s naive sniggers as

I exit the fool’s territory; a better opportunity, my opportunity.

Racing from my resting flock;

naive yellow bills dream.

Jolting off my dune, soaring with a waft of wind,

for the win.

A bullet; my chalky, ample, angelic feathered friends

cuddle my body, giving me energy to

race ahead of my feet, encouraging me

To go, go, go

But my margins haze and my thoughts are

clouded by my young, squawking at my red spot.

Rage. Uranus hits Zeus-

I pray they haven’t led the gold astray.

The intruder’s Herculean wings prepare for theft.

Minute yet determined.

Zeus’ breaths fight my soars

into mere flaps.

Grey. Time slows; a dull resolution

rises rapidly upright, obstructing my path

It snaps it. The gold, my offspring’s gold.

I’m burning; it’s our gold, our land.

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