The Seagulls

Against the faceless throng we shoulder paths; 
the street is tinnitus, out-numbers rats.
To coin a phrase: money grows on trees.
Retail is therapeutic - it guarantees.
Up blind alleys the ferryman's coins
are gutter pennies luckless drunks will spend.
A medieval side-street narrows the noise;
shadow-trapping high gables extend
to roofless sky. The light holds my glance
as seagulls arc the gap, slow-flowing -
a buoyant silence, grey incongruous grace -
they float in focus, defining distance.
Out of time, I breathe their space,
prolong my reach to their serene going.