First flight, a juvenile gull lands heavy on the balcony. She’s scared. Parents, sentinels. The community is a riot.
I’m going to call this mottle-beauty a gwylet, after Welsh gwylan for gull and ‘et, as in cygnet, owlet.
After hours, she finds her way to the edge, and swoops again, wind through her virgin feathers.
To another, lower shiny, slate roof.
Landing, slips down, backwards, wings stretched. Friction.
Stops. Climbs ugly to a tiny notch. Breathes.
I’m with her parents, on guard, until nightfall. But in the morning, they are all gone. #gwylets #gulls
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On Birdetal being During Lockdown
Feather by me
From my rooftop terrace on a hill in the city of Cardiff, in a vague state of suspended covi-disbelief you’ll recognize, I face due South into the eye of the midday sun. A man-jumble of roof, balustrade and wall contains what would otherwise be a 180 degree arc-view from East to West. The sky is none-the-less enormous, and I love it. Each day, I observe the clouds as if they are hastily evolving species, manifesting the effects of water and sky-physics, and stealing creature-ly shapes, every once in a while, stored deep in my imagination
Everything seems in tension, between closed and open, the constraints of the streets, confinement and grief within homes, yet pinned down by the freedoms of the sky. … Read more