Simon Berry
Born in the Midlands, educated in Yorkshire, worked for many years in Glasgow as a journalist , translator and writer. Former President of Scottish PEN and book pages editor on The Scotsman. Also lived in Sicily and Cyprus. Now lives in the Highlands and a member of the award-winning Ross-shire Writers Group. Had first collection of poems published in 2014 (A Mask for Grieving & other poems FTRR Press). Has also written a biography of Victorian city poet Alexander Smith (Applauding Thunder 2013). Currently working on memoirs, working title If I’m Honest.
A HERRING GULL OBSERVES
This is a wicked spot for just keeping
An eye on you.
You at the sink, me at your potted plant
On the coal bunker.
It’s where you feed me an occasional scrap
And I look in with the left
And then with the right eye to keep tabs
On what could be next.
Listen up, you might learn something.
I’ve learnt how to make myself appealing
Hunching small, beaking up, being your chick.
I can even balance on one leg, spread a wing
To full pinion, showing you the grey and white,
Cocking my head to one side. If all else fails
I give repeated beak blows to your glass.
I know your routine, knobhead. I’ve seen you
Eating that salmon en croûte meant for two
And I just get fishy crust. You must think I’m stupid.
You go away for days at a time and never think
About me. You assume I’ll keep the other gulls
At bay plus those bastard rooks. I raise my head and
Shriek and they scatter doublequick. Not my fault
I don’t skim the azure main seeking my silver prey
Just like in the good old days. Things have changed:
Nowadays I tear into street pigeon, nearly dead meat.
Just guess the energy I use to keep watch nine to five.
Your fastfood waste hardly replaces it.
You think you’re so wonderful with your Wave
Cooker that pings and that Frosty Cupboard.
You must think I don’t get what you get up to
With your naff dinner plates and matching saucers.
You must think there are boundaries that I’ll never
Ever cross. Mind, though, that day you found me
At the cat’s dish, skiting on the vinyl, then leaving
Through the open door. Next time you don’t get
Off so lightly. Shite on your windows is just the start.
Now you led me to expect a lot more
From this deal I believe we made.
Did you think I’d stay content for ever
With the rind from your cured bacon?
I’m keeping tabs. A reckoning is due.
Just now I could do with a hot breakfast.
So you should know exactly what’s coming:
Your kind made me what I am
So wise up, friend, beaks are back.
© Simon Berry 2017
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