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Seagulls over ha’penny bridge (Marcella Boccia)
Seagulls over ha’penny bridge (Marcella Boccia)
The wind carries whispersfrom the belly of the bay,and the seagulls—gray shadows against a steely sky—soar,unfurling wings like the forgotten pagesof an old, unread book.Their cries pierce the morning,sharp and rawas the taste of salt on lips that never learnhow to forget.They circle above the Ha'penny Bridge,a thousand voiceswoven together,chasing the current of a riverthat knows no end,only a beginning lost in the pulse of time.The bridge sways beneath me,a century’s weight pressing into the cobblestones,the breath of history in the creasesof this old city.I stand stilland let the sound of wingsscrape against the edges of my heart,reminding me of the hungerthat can never be sated,the ache that never leaves.I watch the gulls,their wings a stained glassfractured by the wind,suspended between the worlds of sea and sky.They are the ghosts of stories untold,the echoes of lives livedin the spaces between.A song of freedom,a song of loss.The river moves beneath the bridge,untouched by the cold,its murmur steady,a voice that has never known rest.And still, the gulls scream—their cry a prayerto a sky that will never answer.I turn away from the wind,but the gulls follow—a thousand wings,a thousand unspoken names.And I wonder,in the stillness between their calls,if we are all just like them:lost in the sky,flying above the bridgeswe cannot cross,seeking the oceanwe are never meant to reach.
The wind carries whispersfrom the belly of the bay,and the seagulls—gray shadows against a steely sky—soar,unfurling wings like the forgotten pagesof an old, unread book.Their cries pierce the morning,sharp and rawas the taste of salt on lips that never learnhow to forget.They circle above the Ha'penny Bridge,a thousand voiceswoven together,chasing the current of a riverthat knows no end,only a beginning lost in the pulse of time.The bridge sways beneath me,a century’s weight pressing into the cobblestones,the breath of history in the creasesof this old city.I stand stilland let the sound of wingsscrape against the edges of my heart,reminding me of the hungerthat can never be sated,the ache that never leaves.I watch the gulls,their wings a stained glassfractured by the wind,suspended between the worlds of sea and sky.They are the ghosts of stories untold,the echoes of lives livedin the spaces between.A song of freedom,a song of loss.The river moves beneath the bridge,untouched by the cold,its murmur steady,a voice that has never known rest.And still, the gulls scream—their cry a prayerto a sky that will never answer.I turn away from the wind,but the gulls follow—a thousand wings,a thousand unspoken names.And I wonder,in the stillness between their calls,if we are all just like them:lost in the sky,flying above the bridgeswe cannot cross,seeking the oceanwe are never meant to reach.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIASeagulls over ha’penny bridge (Marcella Boccia)
The wind carries whispersfrom the belly of the bay,and the seagulls—gray shadows against a steely sky—soar,unfurling wings like the forgotten pagesof an old, unread book.Their cries pierce the morning,sharp and rawas the taste of salt on lips that never learnhow to forget.They circle above the Ha'penny Bridge,a thousand voiceswoven together,chasing the current of a riverthat knows no end,only a beginning lost in the pulse of time.The bridge sways beneath me,a century’s weight pressing into the cobblestones,the breath of history in the creasesof this old city.I stand stilland let the sound of wingsscrape against the edges of my heart,reminding me of the hungerthat can never be sated,the ache that never leaves.I watch the gulls,their wings a stained glassfractured by the wind,suspended between the worlds of sea and sky.They are the ghosts of stories untold,the echoes of lives livedin the spaces between.A song of freedom,a song of loss.The river moves beneath the bridge,untouched by the cold,its murmur steady,a voice that has never known rest.And still, the gulls scream—their cry a prayerto a sky that will never answer.I turn away from the wind,but the gulls follow—a thousand wings,a thousand unspoken names.And I wonder,in the stillness between their calls,if we are all just like them:lost in the sky,flying above the bridgeswe cannot cross,seeking the oceanwe are never meant to reach.
The wind carries whispersfrom the belly of the bay,and the seagulls—gray shadows against a steely sky—soar,unfurling wings like the forgotten pagesof an old, unread book.Their cries pierce the morning,sharp and rawas the taste of salt on lips that never learnhow to forget.They circle above the Ha'penny Bridge,a thousand voiceswoven together,chasing the current of a riverthat knows no end,only a beginning lost in the pulse of time.The bridge sways beneath me,a century’s weight pressing into the cobblestones,the breath of history in the creasesof this old city.I stand stilland let the sound of wingsscrape against the edges of my heart,reminding me of the hungerthat can never be sated,the ache that never leaves.I watch the gulls,their wings a stained glassfractured by the wind,suspended between the worlds of sea and sky.They are the ghosts of stories untold,the echoes of lives livedin the spaces between.A song of freedom,a song of loss.The river moves beneath the bridge,untouched by the cold,its murmur steady,a voice that has never known rest.And still, the gulls scream—their cry a prayerto a sky that will never answer.I turn away from the wind,but the gulls follow—a thousand wings,a thousand unspoken names.And I wonder,in the stillness between their calls,if we are all just like them:lost in the sky,flying above the bridgeswe cannot cross,seeking the oceanwe are never meant to reach.