Three Poems by Stephen Wrigley

Gull

A bird stands in the field, a gull.

He comes most days, to the same spot, 

central, white on green. I wonder

why he visits. Peace? Surely not,

gulls are gregarious. Perhaps 

he’s staking out a nesting site,

but on a field, in view, exposed, 

vulnerable from any height?

There must be something else. Cast out 

from the colony, penance calls.

He’s lost a mate and comes to mourn. 

Wanderlust - is this where it stalls?

I wish him well, even envy

his space, above, that arch of sky,

and when he’s done with thought and rest, 

his languid skill to lift off. Fly.

Gull Again

Gull has returned, same field, same spot, 

may have a mate, each white on green. 

Head raised, a cautious circling starts

as beak to breast he bobs and preens.

Potential nest? It’s too exposed 

although an all round view exists. 

I'm unconvinced: marauding fox 

or Mr Brock would not desist.

So, courtship wins? A handy patch

to strut and bow, advance his case? 

One could do worse than step the dance 

upon this grassy private space.

I pause to write. But, raise my eyes, 

the birds have flown, the field is clear. 

Like snow, their visit was a gift,

fresh at December’s end of year.

Buzzard, Gull

Buzzard comes visiting the field, 

imposing presence, squat and dark. 

Feathered, his flanks top armoured feet, 

the trappings of an oligarch.

Northward lies his wooded stronghold: 

is he beating boundary lines?

With such a high ungainly step,

that may not be the task in mind.

But wait! From nowhere, Gull appears,

a raucous diving mobster bird.

He harries Buzzard from his patch 

despite a foe hook-beaked and spurred.

Chance passing flight? The world of air 

has hidden corridors, it seems.

There, raptors ride but lookouts guard 

the limits of perceived regimes.

Stephen Wrigley 

“Gulls” and “Gulls Again” appeared in the magazine “Stanzas” in 2020