The Gusted Gull (by Christine Biles)
I set off barefoot, endlessly walking,
along a boundless beach, with sand solid gray,
when a seagull came, vociferously squawking,
I groaned, but knew not what to say.
Its feathers were tattered, white color faded,
old, gray-haired gull, lucky to see this new day.
That senile scream said long it has waited
for a red sun to rise, an ocean ablaze.
Landing before me, in the water it waded,
called the heavens deceiver, creator of haze.
Red sun it has seen, the ocean red-crested,
but never have flames forced the end of its days.
For release, ever-asking, its patience was tested
Too much it has flown, too much has it known,
with no fires now come, life has it bested.
Now crazed and demented, to the brink it is blown,
the memory of life: neglected; abandoned: how it has grown.