Gulls shout loudly from the chimney stacks
then glide and threaten in the hollow echo
of the scrunched-up houses.
The sky is grey in the autumn light at four o’clock.
Rain will come and drum the crusty earth
then thirsty worms will show their heads,
starters for the sea-gulls tea.
Men go home, women too. Lowry folks;
blokes in overalls and tawdry girls.
Their work is done, their homes are welcoming.
The drifters dock with catches of herring
that shimmer in the colding light
and leave the remnants in the sea for flights
of gulls that swarm and swoop for goodies.
Eight o’clock; church halls fill.
Down the hill, sportsmen train,
bingo calls and babies dream.
Drinkers drink and seagulls scream.
Life still casts its strangling mesh;
gulls have their fill of rotting flesh
and folk go home to sleep.