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(Wednesday 5 November 2014, 1.00 pm)
Chilly,
with muddy autumn clouds, and rain
About
to fall, I stood observant onThe leaf-deep cornice of the village pond –
The yellowed ash leaves and the black-spot limes
Had fallen quickly as the frosts came on.
The pond was busy with the squabbling life
Of black-head gulls, in fact dark brown and now,
Late in the year’s cycle, returned to white.
I knew them from the white head common gull
By their rust red legs and bills and the white flash
Along their wings’ front edge, stark to the eye
As, twisting in the wind’s uneven thrust,
They sought to settle on the water’s face
Among their tetchy fellows, quick to cry
And take to wing dishumouredly if penned
Too closely by the landing ones. The rain
Began to fall in puckered kisses that
Elastically, like half-moon swathes of grain
By the sower swept, flurried across the pond –
The gulls unnoticing. With shoulders hunched
I stood and studied what before had passed
Me by: the gulls to land would bank and swoop
Then hover momently to pick a spot
Among the paddling ones to settle down;
They’d drop that final foot or so and at
The final moment, thrusting out their feet
Use them as fulcrum, falling forward on
Their breasts to make a thudding contact with
The water, hence coming to rest at once:
When noticed it could not escape the eye.
This thumping at the water called to mind
How airplanes landing, even jumbos, slam
Their wheels onto the tarmac, seeking firm
Command at once to minimise the threats
Which face a laden quickly-moving shell.
One only has to watch a mallard duck,
Its baize-green head aquiver as it lands,
Tearing a furious and noisy gash
Along the mere, for seconds barely in
Control as it juggles speed and purchase in
The turmoiled jagged water: yes, that proves
The beauty of the gulls’ slam-dunk! But what,
I mused, are its advantages? And here
I saw that landing, launching, like a freak,
With cracking wings and tumult, bathed in spray,
Merely alerted predators who might
Attack or simply stalk until a chance
Came later; then, a messy landing meant
A risk of damage – gulls with injured wings
Will soon be dead, starvation or a fox
Will see to that; and finally, a gull
Who blunders, landing, into other gulls
Will often find forbearance, the gulls veer
Away, or launch protestingly, but should
One wield its beak instead it’s further chance
Of damage; no, much better to at once
Put down decisively and then, in full
Control, be poised for rapid paddling from
Assault, or holding ground to bully down
A challenger, or crucially to have
A solid platform for an instant flight
To airborne screaming safety. And, in truth,
The gull’s ability to soar at will
If something threatens its neurotic eye
Itself catches the eye: how different from
The flounders of the Canada geese who force
Their bodies, barrel-brown, and black-flute necks
Into a flapping run along the pool’s
Gloaming, their wings’ cacophony and thrash
Of spume attracting every lustful gaze
Until at last they clamber into air.
And so, by capturing those whim-learned tricks
That prompt survival, the blind craftsman, Chance,
Which sifts behaviours, riddling to the fore
Inheritable traits, efficient, apt,
Has gifted black-head gulls a landing skill
Both quick and safe, if for a moment’s length
Ungainly in its breasted toppling slump.
Doubtless, such safety is contingent on
Creation’s dire ability to cheat
And with the unexpected, kill; at least,
For what it’s worth, each landing neatly gained
Contributes to the gulls’ instinctive rage
To suffer on, obtusely adding days
To the risky, food-short burden of their lives.
Such were my thoughts beside the rain-shot pond
One wasting, thin-aired grey November day.
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©
November 2014