The Morecambe Hundred.

The cat looks at the hand, the dog at where it points.
The gull looks at the world beyond; beyond Morecambe, beyond the frame, beyond our knowledge. Atop the watchtower, he gazes outwards to avoid gazing back. His lamppost roost omits light, and he peeks over the shadow reflective of the ground aspiring to sky, and crushes with the power of light, of hope, of nostalgia, the present. With the glorious historical home to which there can be no return. Morecambe presse.
We look up, he avoids eye contact. His sniper beak flirts with impending wound, and the pain to follow. The scab rips off and the gull cries, the light dies.
Rain pours from a sky with forgotten clouds, and pounds the upturned faces of the people below, gawping up at the watchtower.

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