The wind from the west, the tide was high;
The sea-wrack filled the water, made it brown;
The breaking waves were coffee, foam for cream.
No bird perched on the rail, none clove the sky
Which with its leaden canopy leaned down
As though its weight to push the waves did seem.
But seagulls in their hundreds, their supply
Of food assured, settled upon the crown,
Dipped beaks into the froth that there did teem,
Gorging themselves, no further urge to fly.
As children on a picnic called to eat
Forget the boats and swings, the hunt and chase,
And settle down united for a space
In one endeavour to make self replete.
Weekly Times 11.3.60