Backpack sat, sheltering well. Last post harbour, cradled by fells.
Churchhouse slept, up before dawn. Hobo Poet, journey sworn.
Hum of boats, pierced by, terror beak, beady eye.
Sneaky walk, leg bent : silver back, hell sent.
Hunting on the pavement for chip bits, and dog ends.
Long since ever fish catch, this bird should wear an eye patch.
Opportunist mismatch, of poet food and bird snatch.
Fought back, threw hat, "Bloody Gull, I ain't having that!"
Only simple fare had, none to spare, now i'm mad.
Chorus on the light tops, looking up, mighty shock.
Fifty Gulls of mighty stock, more battalion than flock. ready for my head to knock.
Flightless young around my feet, whistling as if i'm a tasty treat.
Time for me to beat retreat, back to sheltered backpack seat.
White shadows quieten, sentinel ghosts. Circling warriors back to their posts,
and so, and so, and so it goes. Back to waiting, 2 hours to go.