A Treasure
The low tide quay appears stark,
Strewn with debris,
For there was no need then to impress visitors
Or scatter sand for their leisure…
The tall chimneys rise dark,
Blackened by soot,
Yet they are like church spires for fisherfolk
Upon ‘ancient houses’ not built for pleasure…
The white wooden cladding, scratched
Drab from weathering,
Has tiny windows like those of a bird-hide,
As if harsh storms and squalls to conceal…
The Ship Inn sign protrudes, attached
To grim, stone walls
And a metal rail steers its course
Deeper into Mousehole, its secrets to reveal…
Pete Ray
September 2017
Looking at the attached old image of Mousehole’s ‘ancient houses’…
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