Tuesday 25/4/2023

of their
exultant cries,
on the morning
of the second day
under singular clouds
seagulls ride thermals,
silent circlets of sun-stacked air,

By afternoon the sun has turned.
A snowfield of crumpled cloud
ripples through the brain,
a St Bernard strained
to drooping jowl,
to mouth
to eyes
to ears
and above it
all the sound of
a turbine's whine.
An aircraft on course.
Stags set for foreign climes,
beers to be swilled in Magaluf.