3 MAY 1963, Page 24

Sixty Gulls

Sixty gulls seed this field with white, Salting each furrow, crumbling the soil That falls in slabs like fruit cake.

Serene in air, They waddle on the ground, their feet Planting wedges of tangerine, Their beaks, as yellow as a toe nail, Stabbing at worms turned up by the tractor. .. They are always hungry. They dine Ceaselessly on live meat and dead, Not provident, but prompted by lean memories They shall not want, even in time of famine, Carrion is their daily bread.

They know us better than we know them.

Look at their eyes.

PHILIP OAKES,