THE SELDOM  SEEN

Often you hear them
Crying the cries of seabirds on salt walls
The seldom seen.

These are their times: noon, on those days
When morning has come late or not at all.  Five o'clock
Flattened against railings in iron towns;
Hours of eclipse; instants which will leave across the mind
Only the tracks of dubious recall.

These are their occupations: riding gusts
Through clacking reed-beds.  Calling to you softly
With seabird voice, who live your lives
In ordered comfort.  Sucking at finger-tips,
Seeking your momentary eye.

Turn your head away is my advice
Or else the seldom seen, cunning as fur
Will draw you home and roll your eyes like marbles
Across the dusty pavements of their dreams.

Martin Woodhouse

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