The Day I Died.


The day after I was born it snowed handfuls

of the white fluffy stuff coming down in June.

I’ve never been bothered by gravitational pulls

but stop silent at the eerie call of the moon.


The day after I was born a seagull died.

It washed up wet and cold on a pebbled beach.

My thick dark hair was my first baby pride.

My mother bent over to make my first kiss reach.



The day I died they twisted a whole tree

of holly into a cross as the gulls looked on.

The little angel on the grave beside me

played into silence her stone lute song.


The day I died the sun did not get the memo

and shone brighter and cheerier than smiles.

Children with fingers salty from play-dough

picked their noses in their own special styles.



The day between all of the days that I lived

I invented a thousand new uses for junk.

I watched as my grandmother had to be bibbed.

I laughed till I cried as my skipping stone sunk.


The day between all of the days that I lived

I befriended a white gull who never once cried.

I wrote a poem on a fly with an old spider’s rib.

I opened my arms and drank the ocean's tide.

The End

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