Seagulls Supper

Have you ever gone to the beach,
for a stroll along the sea,
to see only, the sand beneath your feet?

You hear the lashings of salty water, lapping
the grains winded whatever way the weather.
Yet you are not here. You are elsewhere.

I was blinded to the Atlantic Ocean scene one day.
My mind astray whilst walking on soft, golden, Tramore.
I came across a thousand prints of four fingered feet.

Stunned. I stopped. My thoughts shocked to that spot.
I turned to follow the path trodden, toward the dunes,
to where she lay. Quiet dead.

White shit shat on her ruffled fur mane.
Eyeballs hollow, where once the delicacies blinked miles deep.
A great lion of the sea, she saddened me to see her there.

I stood awhile to look upon her shimmering homesea.