A seabird collides with an oncoming Train –

And a girl on the platform screams out,

But it is drowned by the screech of the train

As the brakes activate, and

By the whistle, not of mourning,

But of victory –

And what a feeble thud

Of the Gull as it soars one final flight,

And hits the ground; dying, but not dead.

The red mouth of the girl on the platform

Is still open,

And she is still sounding the ancient death-cry

Of her people.

(The fruit is still ripe where it has fallen

From her hand.)

And the girl is the gull,

And she is the train,

And, of course, she is

The man on the platform

Who does not look up from a newspaper

With yesterday’s date emblazed on the top,

Does not bear witness,

But who hears the cry of the gull-girl

And who later,

Without quite knowing why,

 Turns his face up to the moon

And howls.