He never fell to Earth,
or sold the world;
he never had a golden gun,
or left a banner unfurled.
But, he was recognised everywhere,
that he and his passenger went,
from Land’s End to John o’Groats,
from Cape Wrath down to Kent.
“There he is!” the crowds would cry,
“The Seagull with a man under its feet!”
and the man would stop, and sigh;
resigned to be known as such
for ever more,
for the gull, it had forgotten
exactly how to fly.
Unwin, the one-wing one,
flew in circles,
round and round he went;
he left Looe for Scotland,
and ended up in Kent.
I’m just a gull
tap-dancing on the roof
of a silver Mazda 5,
it’s what I do
to keep my dreams alive
of becoming a dancer
and gracing the stage;
it’s all about talent
and not about age,
when you get to my age,
that is.
The postcard was addressed to a ‘Mr. Sylvester Swoop Esq., The Quayside, Looe, Cornwall.’
Of course, there was no address like this in Looe, East or West, and a ‘Mr. Sylvester Swoop’ was unknown to the post office and to those asked who lived in that area.
The picture on the front was of a pasty, and the flag of St. Piran was prominent in one corner – however, the post mark was from the town of Paisley in Renfrewshire – most strange.
The message was simple: ‘You can have this pasty, ya black headed- Bandersnatch!’ written, we assume, by an angry hand.
Eventually, after much deliberation, the postcard was pinned to a post on the Quayside at Looe. Perhaps Sylvester Swoop would notice it if he passed.
A seagull once told me
that, although pasties taste nice,
it’s really the thrill of the chase
not the taste
that makes them think once –
and not twice –
about diving and swooping
on unsuspecting souls
who have purchased a pasty,
flaky sausage rolls.
or maybe just a cone of chips.
The Gull just dips his head
and off he goes
follows his beak
and with the smell up his nose
he flies over whelmed shores.
And, in one foul swoop…
… he’s coq-au-hoop!
Ibble was a gull,
a Herring gull,
who flew to Looe
from the fair port of Hull.
He flew South West
to get the best
food that he could,
as any gull would.
The finest fish,
from the freshest catch
the choicest morsel
no other could match.
He stood on a post
watched the people walk past;
followed the boats
or he perched on a mast,
watching the fishermen
as they prepared all the fish;
grabbing a morsel,
or as much as he’d wish.
Ibble flew with the locals
and was accepted by most;
slept on Looe Island,
kept to the coast,
and sang his gull song,
too often, too long,
as he was proud of his vocals,
and soon did belong.
Ibble was a gull
who flew to Looe
from the fine port of Hull,
as a gull should do.
A seagull ate my poem
on the seafront the other day;
he swooped right down
all uninvited
and stole my words away.
 | trE on The Butterfly and I |
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