I awoke to howling empty screams

and then I knew.

That all the children of the town

were turned to seagulls.

 

Soaring and wheeling over their old homes

where mothers are busy frying bacon.

 

They don't understand.

Where has the old school gone

where they were slow to go?

Why are cars parked up on the island

where they used to pitch their tents?

And more cars still, on Smeaton's busy pier

where they once used to dive?

 

Hungry, the children ask for food

but they are seagulls now

angrily waved away from chips and pasties,

ice creams shielded by daytrippers to the town.

 

Dappled grey and brown as tabby cats

the seagull children stand forlorn on swathes of sand.

For they do not like to eat raw fish.

 

Such a sad sound to wake up to,

as young boys voices break

into the cry of gulls.