It’s a bit disheartening to go away for a few days hoping to find new ideas only to realise that you have already written poems that correspond to almost everything you see. Sadly, that was what happened to me this week. Then again, it gives me an excuse to re-visit some older pieces.
This scene, for example – on the beach in Portugal when the fishermen were clearing up after landing their catch – reminded me of a poem I wrote when someone suggested writing a piece inspired by a favourite book. (JLS isn’t exactly a favourite, but I was already trying to write something about seagulls when the challenge was made.)
Gulls wake and scatter in the light,
a bickering, boisterous crowd
that shrills and screams a stream
of sardine-breathed fishwife’s abuse.
Loud roisterers, they gust and squall; they roll
and raunch on drums of swelling air, scrabble
for stale bread, scrimmage and squabble
over scraps and fish-heads.
and almost out of sight, a single silhouette
slides down a banister of blue
as clear as thought.