Belated lunch
at the Port of Sale.
Seagulls,
ever-hopeful
have flap-footed over.
I have not
wound down my window,
I have not wound down my mind.
Rain flecks my windscreen,
voluptuous maids, who genuflect,
grow serene-sublime-expectant
then gently, flute-trickle down
alive to their own determination.

The gulls have choices too.
Some choose to grass-nest-wait shower out,
puffed-plumes eiderdowning and deterring wet.
One shelters sulky under bench
but most stand atop
a weather-watching brigade -
beaks up and resolute
facing bleak, brief squall
without a squawk.
No sou'westers,
no Paddington bear attire,
nothing between them
and the misery of drizzling rain,
yet         no

complaints.

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