The gulls cry to be fed
and the woman raises the sound on the TV.
Hungry for love, the gulls screech
and the woman preens her hair.
Desperate, they beg.
The woman
slings slices of white bread
They land just within reach
She straightens their feathers, takes
them to a place where a man
coils words around their beaks, their eyes
and shoots
framing their formal guise
The woman
places the portrait
on the living room wall.
The gulls see.
This must be love, they say.
The woman
Switches on the TV
to drown out their squall.
The gulls grow.
raise families of their own.
Their polite poses
crowd the woman's wall.
Not a hair out of place,
Many mouths saying “Cheese”
many obedient eyes gazing
into a stranger's face.
He clicks, and it's done.
He clicks.
He clicks, and the children - for
they are children - stretch their muscles,
appreciating release.
The proud matriarch of three generations
turns from the TV
and and reaches to make space
in her spick and span home
for another trophy.
©Jane Paterson Basil
Making it write 