Seagull

The seagull does fly over suburban rooftops,
So far inland and is lost to the sea,
Soaring and shearing and gliding and turning,
And high up above it moves so gracefully,
Through the air it does travel fast
I listen to its call,
And carried on the summer wind
The echoes of its cry.

The sunlight does shine on its silver white wingtips,
As it does move through the great blue unknown,
Searching for food and for scraps it can live on,
Exploring the landscape it heads all alone,
And it views all the scenery
So unfamiliar from,
The coast where it was born and raised
From which it now does fly.

High over the fields and the green hills beyond them,
Factories and chimneys the seagull does roam,
Over the towers and noise of the city,
So lonely it travels and so far from home,
To seek a good resting place
And some companionship,
As evening falls its sillhouette
Against the amber sky.

by ANDREW BLAKEMORE