Gull

Haworth Hodgkinson

Strutting the seafront, as you do,
past the parked cars,
you stop to stare at the supper eaters.
If you tilt your head slightly,
give the look of endearing expectation,
they'll wind down the window
and throw you a scrap of what they're eating.

You might get a chip, a bit of fish batter
or a chunk of burger gristle.
Sometimes you get weird stuff:
an olive, or a slice of cucumber,
a rolled-up herring,
or one of those foul tasting cigarette stubs –
I wouldn't eat those unless you're desperate.

It's worth hanging around
because when they've had enough
they'll throw what's left out of the window.
It comes in paper wrapping that's not good to eat
but if you fling it about
and bash it on the ground
all the nice bits come out.
You've got to act hasty
because soon all your mates will be along
wanting their share:
the three-second rule says
what you lay claim to before they arrive
is yours.

The bad news is sometimes the car people
put their final portion
in one of those bin things with swinging lids
so you can't get at it.
How spiteful is that,
deliberately wasting good food?
It's enough to make you open your beak
and let the squawk escape.

Written 2015

Published in White Wings of Delight, 2015
(Elizabeth Reinach and Keith Murray Advertising)
and in The Granite Mile, 2017
(Castlegate Arts)