It’s nice being a Penzance Seagull….
Spreading my wings the wind carries me away, high up and away! Tilting to the right my wings are spread wide as a sail. I am pushed towards the sheer rocky cliffs of the bay. I never tire of the rush of being swept aloft. It is, for me, effortless.
There’s a Coast Guard ship in the harbor, a white hulk with a red stripe and countless antennae transmitting and receiving who knows what in the ether. It carves the water like a rusty razor blade firmly and waits for violators. I remember flying by it one night and I saw a box inside with moving pictures. The box said “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!!!” I didn’t get it.
Adjusting my wings and turning to the right I see Porthcurno where people go to enjoy the water on beaches of finely crushed seashells polished to a smooth finish by the waves that pound the peninsula. The North Atlantic is NEVER warm and people wear stretchy suits that cover them almost completely.
Just the other day I saw a handsome, young American chap and he was carrying a stuffed toy tiger for some reason. He went into the water and ran back almost immediately as fast as a swallow yelling about how he was freezing. You hairless monkeys are just not made for this water I’m afraid. It’s a fool’s pursuit, at least in mere swimming trunks.
Twisting my frame slightly and turning left I see St Michael’s Mount perched like one of my vulture friends awaiting a death. It’s built on a rock that you can walk to during low tide. Sometimes when I am tired I rest upon the battlements and can see all the way to the Lizard peninsula, the Kingdom’s most southerly point.
There’s another place like this, except it’s MUCH bigger. It’s called Mont St Michel and it’s off the coast of France. I can see this place but I have to fly very high.
You probably don’t know this, but the pre-ordained plans of men detailing their destiny are written on the undersides of clouds, including yours. I know, I have seen and read them. Don’t bother to ask me, it isn’t as if you would understand me anyway.
When I tire of reading them I look to my left at the Mount and the right at the Mont and wonder why you apes don’t speak the same language.
Admittedly it’s not as if pondering this issue will do me any good anyway. That’s the beauty of being a bird, I really don’t need many answers about much of anything.
It’s nice being a Penzance Seagull.
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