Gull Trouble
Like rowdy teens all running for a bus
The gulls have seen the merest hint
That someone threw a crust
An unwanted scrap from Pret
The bottom of a wrap or the final soggy
Mouthful from a keytchup spattered bap
Sending fifty feisty squabbling birds
All rising in a screechy flap
Just the first arrive in time to dive
And wing away their beak-caught prize
Towards the winter water skies
Chased by the nearest losers.
The rest resettle in their line to wait again
Another time the unpredictable arrival
Of a sandwich part way munched
In the office lunch timetable.
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