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Each oar-thrust spread arrowheads that kept Gunsgreen House in line with a crowd of gulls over the town cowp.
Behind the grunt of timbers, bump of oars, we used the dying drum-roll of combers on sand to judge distance off
then paused to drop our lines poised on a copper dome made molten by ripples thrown by the boat’s yaw.
All round the fleet swung metronome masts in a calm that floated bird down. Gulls swirled above our heads
leaking amber through corona-edged wings feathers fine as lashes. Again and again they dived across the sun,
shadows criss-crossing the deck urgent, as if to warn us to heed the signs:
the heel of a hand on the horizon fingers reaching out to crush the sun.
By Alan Gay from The Boy Who Came Ashore, Dreadful Night Press, 2006
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library |