That seagull, perched upon the lamp-post high,
Unconscious of his perfect form and grace,
Is of created things more noble than
Those that he watches with unlidded eye
Passing below him. He is, in his place,
Fulfilling what was shadowed in the plan
Of his creator. His no feigned cry.
His utterances, though harsh, convey no trace
Of artifice ; and natural elan
Imbues his movement through the boundless sky.
We, who with conscious tread go on our way,
Eyes inward turned and minds confused by doubt,
Assuming that we know what we’re about,
Can only dimly sense his glorious day.
Weekly Times 11.5.62