Picnic
Small crystals of salt jab my skin
ping my not so waterproof parka
bubble the sand, splatter the grey sea silver.
On the tartan car rug we huddle into ourselves
I feign immunity to forces of nature
toss damp scraps at advancing gulls
watch the bossy one scolding
feeding on power.
Not a he, you state with authority
a female attempting control.
Too large for a she I avoid saying
not wanting to quarrel.
Light seeps through clouds
though the rain continues.
I pour tea from the thermos
unwrap pieces of ginger slice.
You stand, arms wide, a messiah
announce to the birds
Ah,beach picnics; nothing better!
Light weakens, wind grows colder.
I hear close cawing, slipping of wings.
Through the car window
gulls grow smaller
the contentious one, like your father.
