A gull spirals into a coil and shrieks a warning
that skims the gun-metal waves of a promise
where a dinghy tosses humans overflowing;
seeking solace and a home in a land of the living;
An unkindness of ravens passes in the dusk.
In my room a radio-voice declares a crossing:
Thirty-seven thousand last year from the coast
I imagine the population of Oxford bobbing.
Would they float with their habitual boast?
The mirror on the closet door shows out there
six sparrows perched in the wind's bluster.
As one springs upwards into the moist air
the arched branch of the hawthorn deflects;
the other five tumble in its unsteady breath.


Kate Hill-Charalambides

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Kate Hill-Charalambides  would like to hear them