To us, as to him, it has to happen somewhere,
So the proud sea-bird rested his yellow beak
On the lapping shore of a tourist beach,
Legs stretched out by the sand castles
And the garish reclining chairs.
Oceans he knew, high waves foaming
On the storm lashed Atlantic,
Brought low from the nobility of natural flight
To the amusement of sand-throwing children,
Broken and discarded like a beach umbrella.