Tag Archives: #Looe

On the beach

Three little dogs,

twelve little feet,

one virginal beach,

as the tide moves out of reach.

Given no note than a few minutes

of running to and fro,

there is no part of the revealed sand

that doesn’t have a paw-print show.

Holes have been dug,

ragged rocks run ‘round,

and all can be discovered

from the tracks on the ground.

Three tired dogs,

twelve tired legs,

“We deserve a biscuit treat!”

the spokesdog says.

Conversationstarter

I’m the seagull poster,

posting seagulls moster,

website seagull hoster

I’m a conversationstarter,

twisted conversationstarter

seagull conversationstarter!!

Off to the Beach

I’m off to the beach

to teach the young dudes

how a planet occludes.

No, not really;

I’m taking the dogs

for a walk,

and to teach them to talk.

No, not really;

actually, not the talking part,

just the walking bit.

The silent seagulls soaring skywards

“ ‘The silent seagulls soaring skywards—‘ “

“Ooh! sounds like a poem!”

“Could be.”

“What’s the next bit?”

“The next ‘bit’ is,

‘aloft, upon the breeze, breathless blown—‘ “

“No, it’s a bit too frilly for my liking. Can’t you make it into a Limerick? That would be better.”

“I could, but it would lose any noble quality that it has.”

“That’s as maybe, but it’ll be a lot funnier.”

“Oh, dear. ‘There was a young seagull from Looe,

Who got caught in a ‘How-do-you-do?’,

It welcomed all sorts,

to one of Cornwall’s fishing ports,

and only stopped when the season was through.’ “

“Needs work.”

“Thank you Mr. Poetry Critic.”

“You’re whelks!”

“I suppose I am.”

‘As I looked through a window’

I looked out upon the world,

and the world looked back at me;

I saw a seagull flying by

heading for the sea;

I called out ‘Gull, where be you to?”

he looked a while at me

and answered “I be off to Looe,

it’s time now for my tea.”

And I was happy at that.

The Seagull Flies

The seagull flies,

and, having flown,

espies a chip, a pasty, scone;

whereupon, said gull calculates the angles

required for a heist,

and gains a Vegan Moroccan pasty,

very tasty, yet quite spiced.

.

The gull had never heard

of Montezuma’s Revenge –

until now.

And gull pledged to gain his own revenge upon

the silly people whilst the Sun it shone.

.

So, flying high, it chose its victim

aimed, and released, splattering poor Tim

from Sunderland,

who wore his badge of pride

with warmth inside,

and white-splotched coat

that in the Sun it dried,

forming a new pattern for e’er to be,

of his being a target

at Looe-on-Sea.

“Oh, no, it’s the Exercise Men!” – Extended.

One day, at about three of the clock in the morning, as the smugglers were offloading their latest cargo of tax-avoidance items at a small inlet upon the island of Looe (aka St. George’s Island, Looe Island, or, way back in time, St. Michael’s Island), there was a voice heard from the lookout, old George Penwithit, his voice still loud and doughty even after seventy-three winters and almost as many summers. ‘Boat approaching!’

‘Oh, no, it’s the Exercise Men!’ exclaimed William Telmother, the youngest of the gang.

Twenty minutes later they were all doing press-ups, star jumps, and crunches, before they were to run two laps of the island.

Looe Island Haiku

This is Looe Island,

it looks like a schoolboy’s cap,

and the gulls live there.

The Tale of a Seagull Called Flap. (Revisited)

This is the ongoing tale

of a seagull called Flap;

not a chip-stealing seagull,

but a nice kind of chap –

.

here’s the thing…

Flap, only has one wing.

.

He was born that way,

many years ago,

so a one-wingéd life

is all he does know;

.

and, ‘Yes!’ I’ll answer,

before you do ask;

Flap ‘can’ fly,

but it’s a bit of a task;

he needs a good run up,

and a following breeze;

there must be a springboard,

to flex out his knees;

and when he is airborne,

by leaving the ground,

he doesn’t fly far,

just around…

and around…

and around.

.

However, Flap is of being an inhabitant of Looe,

as many fine seagulls are wont to do –

East? West?

(East is better, but West is best –

that should keep all the Looevians happy,

for they think that their side of the river

is the only side that is truly blessed).

.

Flap’s home should have been Looe Island;

where, at night, most other gulls went;

but, being unable to fly there,

walking the quayside was how he spent

his time, eating a crumb or a stale bit of crust; which was sufficient,

if rarely sublime;

but, needs must.

.

He did get to the island once in a while;

(as the crow flies it was less than a mile)

and he could cross the short distance from Hannafore on a very low tide;

or wait for the offer of a ferry-boat ride;

but, then, being stuck on the island

was also a pain;

for once he had got there…

getting back again!

.

Flap was a bit of a loner;

though he did make friends with a chip-shop owner,

who put a few tid-bits his way once in a while;

which treats Flap loved,

it caused him to smile

at the kindness of strangers,

of those with a soul;

for, not everyone hated seagulls;

but, Flap still felt a hole.

.

Flap wished for a mate,

a gentle gull to call his own;

not just for a date,

but for a family to raise,

on their island home…

and then in walked Phlip

a gull just like Flap,

one-wingéd,

what on Earth are the chances

of a thing happening like that?

.

Phlip was a pretty Polperro gull,

that had travelled to Looe for a change;

the posh people of Polperro

had pitied poor Phlip,

but told her that she looked, ‘much too strange’;

and, so, she had headed east;

east to find a mate;

and the day that she arrived in Looe

her life was to change,

it truly was an auspicious date.

.

Flap and Phlip

when eyes did meet

they knew they’d met the one;

and Phlip and Flap

did dance on feet

in the shimmering rays of the setting Looe sun.

.

But, how to get to the island?

.

Flap had a left wing;

Phlip has a right;

by holding close together,

together…

they took flight.

.

And now they live upon Looe Island,

where they have made themselves a nest;

and do they have plans for babies?

well, I think you can guess the rest.

.

At the Seaside

‘Where are the pedaloes of yesteryear?

Where the mobile changing-huts?

Where the costumes of sobriety and innocence?

Where the charabancs loaded to the brim?’

Well, they swapped the charabancs for coaches, and the rest have gone by and by.

.

Now …

Families fry, firmly entrenched within their garishly striped windbreaks,

acres of pasty flesh, pointing long-sufferingly at the sun,

adorn tartan beach towels;

ice-creams wave alluringly to the Cornish Sea-Chickens;

and I, sit apart, taking notes.

.

Dogs, ‘Banned from this beach!’

pant effortlessly in the late-morning heat;

and the Gulls tell each other of their passing with, ‘Pob-bob-bob-bob!’

.

Each patch of beach,

heavily fortified,

is guarded by its current owners,

intrusions upon their land

meet with swift rebuke;

but frisbees and beach-balls have no fear

of where they tread.

.

Intrepid adventurers seek the cooling waters of the ‘Ocean’,

or the ‘Sea’, or even the ‘Channel’,

geographically unaware of what is at bay.

.

Throughout the day,

Sun-worshipers, casual tourists,

amused (and bemused) locals,

and our wingéd friends

will ebb and flow;

like the tide,

they come, and they go.

.

Many, will return,

again and again;

but, it’s a different story

when there’s rain.