Strewn
Built not to look picturesque,
Mousehole crowds round its quay;
Solid dwellings shove and muscle-in for space,
Squeezing, angling, staking their claims:
Modest misfits strewn about the place,
Yet never quite appearing grotesque…
Three vessels seem forsaken,
Dragged up an arm on the quay;
Drying hulks, jilted, oddly angled,
Jutting, tarrying, playing no games:
Redundant, strewn near weed and ropes tangled,
They await their village to awaken…
…and the bus typically lingers,
As chimneys poke with soiled fingers…
Pete Ray
October 2016
Thoughts about the above old image, posted by Michael Ellis on Mousehole and West Penwith’s Facebook page…
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