Sunday Morning In Cadgwith Cove
Thatched roof gulls
Turned their backs
But as I descended past a cottage,
Its worn portal was wind-raw,
Neglect aching about the windows dull,
As if occupants had all packed
And left in a hurried furore…
Greylag geese
Stared in unison
As I ascended past a field,
Their amber beaks dirt-soiled;
Hunger sating, the feeders moved 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, those of recent sea-kills
And gulls at the white meat tore,
Their expressions wild and gruesome…
Pete Ray
January 2016
24th January 2016…
Cadgwith 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 and boats, like cars, sat roadside.
More gulls scavenged on the beach, which was covered in weed. This sprang upwards underfoot and fish-heads gurned at me as they lay entwined in the slimy vegetation.
Time for lunch at Rick Stein’s in Porthleven then…
I would choose beef.
It’s what I do…
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