Her China Seagull
It is smooth like skin but cold.
When I lick it it tastes like salt.
(We must be careful at all times and know what we want.)
When I see it, I think of my grandmother,
I think of her house and the cellar with the jars of jam.
I think of her house with the cellar and the jars of jam
and of the garden, and the orchard,
and the blackbirds in summer in the cherry-tree above the wall.
It is smooth like skin but cold
and when I lick it it tastes like salt.
We must be careful and at all times know what we want;
but the seagull is smooth to the touch and cold,
and I think of my grandmother
and her fingers which were bent, and which plaited
each morning the long hair of her daughters.
And I think of her house with its cellar
and the jars of jam and preserves,
and of the orchard, and her hands stained with beetroot.
My seagull is smooth like skin.
When I lick it it reminds me of salt
and of the blackbird, that last summer, in the tree by the wall.
* Myra Connell's second collection of poems From the Boat has just been launched by Nine Arches Press (www.ninearchespress.com)
