Tag Archives: #Seagull

My Seagull won’t come back!

My seagull,

is not a boomerang –

I had to get that straight,

before it became too late.


Anyway, it flew away,

one wintry day

in the very, very,

month of May

(which ‘was’ a surprise).


I expected it to return by June,

by the light of a slithery Moon.

(But, no.)


When it hadn’t come back by October,

I checked to see if I had looked over

(or over-looked)

my seagull.

(I hadn’t).


Christmas passed,

as Christmases do,

with no fewer sightings

than two less than two.

(Which is none).


Valentine’s, Easter, back through May,

and still no sign of my seagull –

not on any day.

Until one differing

(and different) day…

there was a flapping and a hopping;

my hoping had helped,

there was my seagull,

I think that I yelped.


Where had it been,

and why for so long?

Did my seagull’s sat-nav

go incurably wrong?

I never did find out

where my lost seagull went,

whether it travelled first class,

or slept in a tent,

cruised all the oceans,

or stared at a pool,

I have a few notions,

but none of them cool.


Wherever it was,

my seagull’s back on this beach,

where the sun’s always shining,

and life is a peach.

Why do they call me Jonathan?

Why do they call me Jonathan,

when my name is Syd;

is it because of that book they read

when they were but a kid?


Jonathan Livingston Seagull,

by Richard Bach it was;

and how do I, a gull, know this?

Well, you may ask,

and I should not tell,

but, suffice it to say,

I’ve read that book as well.

The Seagull and the Rainbow

The seagull flew

across the sky,

and spied a Rainbow

passing by;

the seagull asked

‘Where do you go,

when the Sun and rain are through?’

The Rainbow replied,

‘When they have gone,

when the rain has fallen,

and the Sun has shone,

I follow after,

in their wake,

until another bow

I should take.’


The seagull flew,

the Rainbow faded,

life carried on,

though now slightly jaded.

A seagull outstanding in his field

It has recently been revealed,

that, a seagull, standing all alone, in his field,

is one in a million,

or more,

or less,

more or less.

My family were,

for a long time,

Agricultural Labourers,

and were outstanding in their field.

But that is by the by,

I don’t know why,

but it is.

So, these words

are just that,

put in this order,

and then thrown into a cocked hat –

whatever that means.

Too far away

You are too far away from me

for me to take a decent picture of you;

and to get you to come any closer

will cost me – you are no charity –

a chip, at the least,

preferably a feast,

if I want to get some clarity.


But, I mustn’t feed the seagulls,

the signs do tell me that,

and I take notice of the signs;

so I focus on you, distantly,

and capture you all blurred;

I’ll just have to keep on trying

to picture you, sea bird.

I’m just a seagull in a car park

I’m here,

and this is where you’ll find me;

and I know you just have to remind me

that this is not the beach,

and that the seaside is out of reach;

but, to tell you the truth,

ever since I was a youth

I have been a seeker seeking follies;

and, here, I can chase the trolleys.

The Day a Jackdaw Pinched my Pasty

I’ll always remember the day:

it was a Saturday,

the day

that a jackdaw

pinched my pasty.

“A jackdaw?” you ask,

“Was it up to the task?

It’s normally a gull

that, perceiving a lack,

will snaffle your snack!”

“‘Twas not a gull,

from Looe or from Hull,

that pinched my pasty,

it was a jackdaw,

of that I am sure.

Black and shiny,

sleek and smart,

was the fearless jackdaw

who practiced his art

to take possession of my lunch,

a wholesome pasty,

on which ‘it’ did munch.”

That day has now been circled

on the calendar of my strife,

as a day I’ll remember

for the rest of my life.

The Seagull and the Jackdaw

The seagull and the jackdaw

took flight one day,

as only a seagull and a jackdaw may;

following the currents

that flow in the air,

lifting their wings

to where all eagles dare;

carousing and calling

in utter delight;

‘til they called it a day

at the coming of the night.



From wingtip to wingtip,

from beak to tail feathers,

from back to claw;

the gull is complete,

and ready to fly

into the yonder blue sky.

The Seagull Flies

The seagull flies,

and, having flown,

espies a chip, a pasty, scone;

whereupon, said gull calculates the angles

required for a heist,

and gains a Vegan Moroccan pasty,

very tasty, yet quite spiced.


The gull had never heard

of Montezuma’s Revenge –

until now.

And gull pledged to gain his own revenge upon

the silly people whilst the Sun it shone.


So, flying high, it chose its victim

aimed, and released, splattering poor Tim

from Sunderland,

who wore his badge of pride

with warmth inside,

and white-splotched coat

that in the Sun it dried,

forming a new pattern for e’er to be,

of his being a target

at Looe-on-Sea.