Words Becoming Voice

A line drawing of a seagull whose beak turns yellow and whose wingtips yawn from pencil-grey to black. A mad round eye that stops staring and starts looking back. A pair of webbed feet putting dents in the paper. A cross-hatched shadow crossing the page. A big and surly-looking bird who preens his feathers with his beak and crawks at you from the clutter on your desk, before taking off in a flurry of wingbeats. Who soars through a sky that used to be your roof. Who wheels above you with wings like a child's M and a prehistoric cry dragged out behind him. Who manages, no matter where you parked it last night, to shit on the windscreen of your car.