The gulls’ wings beat the time
of the ship’s throbbing,
a bloody finger-and-thumb print
on each beak, from a hand
about your size. I’ve heard them
cackling on the corbie steps,
inscrutable, drastic purpose in their eyes,
though I sense your will in them.
The islands rise blue out of a sea
green as your eyes. Your sea?
Lazy flocks of clouds
stray among the hilltops.
Do they veil your mystery?
The world is yours, and I a hostage;
my unransomed heart beats
in time to the wings of your gulls.