The screams of the gulls
into the Atlantic blast
carry the sound of the sea
through the town,
and echo off the crags.
Those uncanny fixed eyes
paired with cruel beaks
and buffeting claws
seem less sinister
as the gale tosses scraps of feather
through the raging air.
Almost, we can pity those lost souls,
those inhuman minds
in their frail cages of bone and muscle.
Until with eldritch shriek
the bastards nick your ice-cream.
Kamala.
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