The Memory of Gulls

Daylight's failing. From the bitter north
cold mist comes sailing in. The onyx stretch
of river turning white, the long-drawn wails

of ships that ride upon the ebb-tide, all
the air gone moist with vapours from below
and heavy on the wing. The western sky

still streaked with red reads winter's omen. Soon
there's sleet to blind the eye, and frost, and food
gone scarce. The shrieks will travel from the shore

to seek their shelter inland, to retreat
when on the air a different feeling tells
that on the shore the frost's foregone its spell.