The gulls are here.
To stir the water
No doubt.

There is an old bum
Begging for a reason.
Opening up a rotting can of
Beans.

I pick a fruit from it’s tree.
Strip it bare
And devour it.

The rest fall to the cold ground
Neglected, like a memory.
The tree dies before its time.
It is no ones fault.

The gulls are here.
To pick fruits and
strip them bear.
To devour.

Here to stir the water
No doubt.