seagull memory

The wind picks up by Barbican,
doglegs me through St Paul’s, 
past a nut-seller huddled by his stall 
on the bridge that will wobble no more

whips foam and seagulls from the Thames 
that cry an Island where 
a sharp eared dog once crouched in harebell grass, 
her muscles twitching in the whistling stems,

with grazing sheep and white tipped  Loch behind, 
she lies and stares at us and lolls her tongue
Rocks sharp fingers lift up through the earth 
tattooed with lichen whorls, where farmers stand 

who squint upon the Loch and look concerned.
"It's choppy, Thomas" says the other man
his grey face lined and split by light blue eyes,
their slow stocatto speeches lost on us

as we between the farmers and the dog 
twitch and squint in ragged thistle play
then make our way back home past Salen's turn 
and dry stone walls and Aunty Peggie's farm.

"Why'd he say that"? we'd ask, "what's choppy mean?"
"Ahh he's just wants to sell his sheep and cows,"
our father said" is worried that the ferry will not go
we listened but could never understand

“Is it choppy now?” we’d ask upon the pier 
as the sea or rusting metal rose and fell 
“No, that's not choppy,” he'd say, as though the waves,
where men had drowned, would never trouble him.

“No, not choppy,” now upon the boat
and so that meant we didn't stay inside
the swaying cabin's stink of diesel warmth 
but run onto the decks and slide

down canvas covered holds and run astern
watch jelly fishes drift in clear cold seas.
I could not learn, like he, to judge the waves
however much i watched the white tipped Loch.

Blown south, I ride back, office bound,
the windy Thames a backdrop to these days.
Rough today, not choppy, I'd be told, 
And the cattle and the sheep? Ah them,
they've all been sold.