When I think of Brighton, what jumps into my mind
is not the grey, roaring sea against a cold, silver sky.
Nor the colourful lights of the Brighton Pier that shine
deep into the night. Nor the music of the merry-go-round
that knows of no sorrow, no age. Nor the smell of fish
and chips, battered and soaked in the salty sea air.
It is the ubiquitous presence of the seagulls. Their shrieks
break the silence of the mornings. Their lines of flight
crisscross, then disperse in the sky. Their hostile gaze,
cast down from rooftops and lampposts, elicits fear and
invites existential crisis. The tales about their ferocity fuels
each lunchtime conversation and unsettles every tourist’s dream.