Showing posts from November, 2019

Poetry: 3 Poems - Ion Corcos

When the Gulls Come

No waves on shingle or a stranded fishing boat; only salt mist,  a cemetery along the windy road,  ice on the cold air,  the morning sun just above the trees. This time no pheasants hang  outside the shop, no quiet;  along the road, past the early Sunday walk, a siren, a leashed dog,  and the church  ringing and ringing its bells.  No quiet, not for the cemetery, nor the dead. The salt is nothing here;  instead, where the road turns and the narrow pavement ends, a hedge, the fence of farm.  Still, the gulls come,  settle in flocks on the ploughed field,   bring mist. The siren,  the church bells, bring the sea back;  bring salt,  smoked cod, the surge of the River Alde that ends in grey, the cold sea.