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The Cockle and the Gull

A sunbaked seashell,

Lying on the beach,

Chipped on the bottom

And just out of reach

Of the tide’s surging swells

But not

The gull’s sturdy beak.


Down she swoops

Down to the sand.

Closer, she scoots

I hold out my hand.

Tilting her head to the side,

She wonders at me

And my featherless hide.


Oh, to be a bird in flight!

I sigh,

To spread my wings,

Soaring

Through the sky.


My fingers twitch,

My hand, unsteady,

Yet the gull, ever-ready,

Doesn’t flinch

But rather

Grabs the cockle,

The little gatherer.


Away she flies

To drop her prize

And see what’s inside.

Little does she know,

The chip on it showed

It had already taken that ride.

6 thoughts on “The Cockle and the Gull

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