Sometimes the surf sings
Be a seagull and fly!
Along the crests of the waves
That lap at the land.
It is late at night
And the mist of the sea
Slips on to the streets,
An extended arm of tide.
My bicycle spokes churn
Through the streetlamps’ gaze
Until the darkness under the pier
Brings me to a halt.
It is there where the echoes
Of the surf on the pilings
Reminds me of the seagulls’ cries
And my age-old wish to fly.
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