Hawker

—Telegram, sir? Just tuppence. Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you.
Standing rapt before the Church, shod in scraps,
punctured toes scraping the cobblestone and quivering 
kneecaps swinging like pendulums.

—Say, sir, suppose you rose above the bustle, 
tucked away your timepiece for a moment, a minute…
The toll of the bell calling
the canonical hour, drowned in the rhythm
of a passing patron’s shaking pocket change.
And the street, strung up by many-pathed
strangers, whispers cruelties of omission
in the hiss of leather soles on stone. 

—Quit your grief, sir, read another’s in fresh black print: Pender,
Margaret, writer and poet. Beloved daughter, mother, wife and friend.
Overtaken by pneumonia.
The fly in the web will watch, perplexed.
Birth and growth, life to death: taken
in a stride, in a stroll up Clergy. Towering O’Toole
in a fine white coat, rolling thunder clouds
that blanket the bay, and winds
only the seagull can understand.

—Tuppence, sir. Oh. Bless you! Bless you!
And the shore-born child
for whom the waves break, sees the seagull
in its unfurled state and wonders:
what a marvel that floats above the ocean
motionless, at ease.