Moon and Seagull

These hours of sameness -
she applies lipstick with a steady hand
while on the underground.
The newspapers litter
and the coughs irritate.

These nights in a terraced house,
rows of eyes looking in on each other
longing to break their glance,
though set in brick enmity.

But then, something outside has changed,

a faint quickness
a corona around the edges of the pane
saying 'Open it, see what I have to show you'.

The moon is bloated with tides
that leak their silver about the flat expanse
and a million million miles beneath,

a seagull

a wave crest of sudden brilliance
but alone, without a sea,
drifts away to continents of sleep.