SUNDAY MORNING IN CADGWITH COVE...

Sunday Morning In Cadgwith Cove…

Thatched roof gulls

Turned their backs

But as I descended past the cottage,

The worn portal was wind-raw,

Neglect aching about the windows dull, 

As if occupants had all packed

And left in a hurried furore…

Greylag goose-flock

Stared in unison

As I ascended past a field,

Their amber beaks dirt-soiled,

Hunger sating, the feeders moving amok;

To them I was an intrusion,

Yet still they scurried and toiled…

Deserted streets spooked,

Spared daily work

As I descended past a boat,

Its parked hull kerbside,

Voyage craving, its need cruelly rebuked;

Now just a propped up quirk,

Incongruous, as it rested roadside…

Mean scavengers’ bills

Ripped fleshy gore

As I ascended past thick weed,

Its springy mass loathsome;

Fish-heads grinning, the deep sea kills;

And gulls at white meat tore,

Vile expressions infested and gruesome…

Pete Ray

January 2016

Cadgwith Cove on Sunday morning, 24th January.

The place appeared to have been evacuated. Even the inn, which would serve meals at midday, was shut and quiet.

Gulls turned their backs on me, geese eyed me suspiciously, boats, like cars, sat roadside and gulls scavenged horribly on the beach of weed, which sprang underfoot, as the fish-heads lay gurning, entwined in the brown plant material.

Time for lunch at Rick Stein’s in Porthleven then. 

I chose beef… 

It’s what I do…

Ignored...

Marooned...

Scoffing...

Scavenging...