Tag Archives: #Gull

The Man with the Gull on his Head

The Man with the Gull on his Head

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.

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Unwin, the One-Wing One.

Unwin, the One-Wing One

Unwin, the one-wing one,

flew in circles,

round and round he went;

he left Looe for Scotland,

and ended up in Kent.

Gull on a Hot Tin Roof

Gull on a Hot Tin Roof

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.

“To a Mr. Sylvester Swoop Esq.”

“To a Mr. Sylvester Swoop Esq.”

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 Winter (Gull)’s Tale

A Winter (Gull)’s Tale

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 the Gull

Ibble the Gull

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 Poem Revisited.

A Poem Revisited.

A seagull ate my poem

on the seafront the other day;

he swooped right down

all uninvited

and stole my words away.