Gulls Cry (Poetry)

Gulls cry at me — for me
pour out a shared agony
a knowingness of how the world is
the harshness — the awful irony.

Their sharp raucous voices cut
the sky into ragged charts —
the deeps and the shallows flow
rain-full of hurt.

Slicing — the razor waves —
sounds strung to crack the glass
they swoop in like memory
and clamour for what’s past.