I straggled lonely down the beach
My last desire was spent:
December only crowned the winter
Of my discontent
When these two gulls, they circled down
Beside the waves and me:
Two sporting in chill freedom,
Me mired in misery
I had them for that moment,
Their impulse became mine;
And all my disappointments
Started there to realign
So now I write about them,
While they’ve been long offstage:
But one bird you have in your eyes
Is worth ten
On the page
Cliché
Clichés become clichés for a reason. Tell us about the last time a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush for you.
