I watch you, Seagull,
on the pub roof on Manchester Road,
tall, alert and shining
against a metallic morning sky.
Feed the birds…Robin,
Sparrow, Starling, Pigeon,
then we set off up Manchester Road to town.
The traffic stops two cars ahead.
It’s Friday, mosque and prayers day
and there’s a man standing next to his car
in the middle of the road.
Distressed.
I climb out and see the postcard
in his hand.
– Trying to lift a grounded Seagull
with his postcard.
I ask if I can help…
He nods sadly and the traffic waits…
Reach down and lift the beauty
into my arms…
– White, shining, heavy, dazed,
A pitiable limpness.
Warm, downy, eyes-glazed.
Lifting limpness I climb into our car
and the traffic moves
up Manchester Road to the vet.
The eye gazes at me in stillness.
Tiny feathers layered on strong muscles
and a whiteness – a softness – a strength
– something like Angelic.
I cradle the long neck carefully
– content to rest –
a bit like kissing Dom’s cheek.
I remember my son dying.
“Shock”, says the gentle young vet.
“It must have died in your arms from shock”.
Thank you for the gift.
I should like to die like that.
Suddenly, without thinking.
Leigh Cook, April 2018
