On bended wing they swoop low, skimming waves;
their mournful cries a perfect foil for the jingle jangle of pier head rides.
They are the post sitters, people watchers...
Still as statue fortune tellers who wait, with baited breath for picnics to appear
Then, with one mad dash and scramble they strike...
Swooping on unsuspecting chip eaters, sandwich snackers, beach sitters
to snatch at tasty morsels from reluctant givers
laughing uproariously at their criminal exploits
before flocking out past foaming breakers
to sanctuary
in the pitch and swell of deep water waves
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