Poetry

The day is icy, grey,
drawn closed, as heavy as lead and wet,
with a southeaster that grabs
that searches for somewhere to hold on to
 
with bricks, oak trees, razor sharp glass
that is jerked loose in its grip,
with paper bags that are ascending in line
to come down somewhere else in the ocean,
 
where seagulls continually angrily screech,
are searching for an own escape and continually do curse.