Gulls at Todd's Point
Shivering, knowing how lines of the tide
use seaweed, and sea-drift, and sea-touch (and bone)
to etch with, I wait to be marked on the sand
(a dragged sag of rockweed, a bulbed grace undone),
moved each way like feathers, slipped slow like a hand,
or whitened past breath. I’ve been moved till I’m gone
and nothing is ready to hold me inside—
following gull-shadows back over the land,
hiding myself. But there’s no place to hide,
whitening my hair in the wind or at dawn;
seagulls are whitening too, and they mourn,
turning and turning.
Love this (almost) sonnet!!
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