Is It All Workaday to Them?

Now I’m near the sea
And the wonder of seagulls.

As yet, they’re all one to me,
Copies carried on the wind
Above the quay.

I don’t know any of them
Individually.

Is it all workaday to them,
The soaring they do
On those snazzy wings,
The fantastical moments
Fixed on a breeze over
A patch of water
That might be hiding
A meal?

Or do they, as I hope,
Also take to the air
Just to be up there,
Inheritors of a
Marvelous gift?

She Might Have Said

“They came for me,”
She might have said.
But what difference
Would it have made
If I’d been sure?
Was some hand,
Poised over paper,
Withdrawn,
Having had leave
To record only
The inarguable?
What report, really,
Can be called
Completely honest
If offered without
The asterisk
Of irreducible
Doubt?