the gulls are flying home

the gulls are flying home,

in this gloaming hour,

in this dimming of the daylight,

in this drifting in of evening shadow,

as the earth returns to sky its sun soaked warmth,

the gulls,

the cawing, cawing gulls

one by one, they hurry home

to some loving hearth that must be there,


beyond my sight,

in a safer place,

a softly sheltered place,

a feathered nest,

a sweet and sacred sanctuary,

yes, it must be there,

for the gulls are flying home

in the gloaming of this day.




The End

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