When rainy days in caravans were holidays,
I'd lie awake for gulls to land; that thud of feet
on roof, those rusted voices, beaks to quickly fray
a fishy eye. I sank beneath the cotton sheet
and heard the whoosh of wings and tasted salted air.
I dreamt a feathered God. I mouthed a pagan prayer.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. Published work can be found in various publications including London Grip, The Lampeter Review, Three Drops from a Cauldron.