Thursday, November 12, 2009


I love it when there are
folded blankets of mist
hanging two feet from the dewy
moored and bobbing like
starched underblankets,
a child's chalk line in the air.
Spiked grasses fail to puncture it
and saturated moss
has never been so protected,
sleeping underneath.
A burnished sun fights for attention,
touching the cold morning
with gold, forgiving fingers
reflected in the hungry eyes
of twenty-six reeling gulls,
spinning their way
towards Pitsea landfill site.

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