Caption: Cornish Tide.
A Gull circles then falls to hover and land high upon a proud chimney. One that rises above the grey slate roofs. It disturbs a flight of Pigeons that launch to climb frantically against the uncreased blue of space above. They circle the town with rapidity to reluctantly dawdle back the Church tower.
It is here that they curse Church Warden Williams of religious probity, with guano that stains the tower white.
It is late October yet the sun bright and warm fills the open spaces to draw people onto the beach.
Where Billy the Terrier, seven years loved and stupid, chases leaves that skip and bounce upon the breeze to the sea. He is caught by a wave and rolls carelessly.
Later. Warm and salty smelling he curls upon his musty cushion, to the side of a stone fireplace that crackles with a soft glow.
This he loves more than Jenny, who wastes her love and food for him.
White is the water where in anger it burst between rocks that stand to resist. These land guards who relentlessly resist the oceans desires. As if maidens holding away suits of love’s amour.
There upon a curving street, sheltered and shaded between the close cottages, that stumble and lean into one another. Cold air settles shaded in resistance to the morning sun.
An old lady pulls her basket trolley as she has done weekly for almost eighty seven years past. It’s
loose wheels rumble rubber bare over times cobbles that have no care.
Laden with vegetables grown by Farmer Gwellin retired. Sold in Larcombes corner Store.
Granny Jones. St Ives born mother of six, soon to be rested in that church yard of tilting stones where the pigeons have flown. Here many common lost souls returned for company.
Young with hair braided and without life’s care. Gypsy mad around midsummers fire she danced as a young woman. Bare foot and shapely strong.
Today teeth slipping tea sipping she sighs from her fathers chair and dreams of a love past.
Fisher Williams born of Llanbedr, settled as a boy by the Cornish sea.
Later, far Arctic convoy mariner was he. U Boat Torpedoed wolf packs of the sea. He swam like a silver fishy to be free. Back to her, never to sail again.
Face like a fish, eyes bulging to the side. Big headed and hands and feet like a seals flipper waddling she moves .
Slippery as she goes.
Seventeen stone and square stands Bertha the fishwife. Mouth like a sewer drunk like a brewer.
All had crossed her none returned.
Four husbands lost and two having abandoned her nagging soul, now alone with time to atone.
The sun sinks ruby red, reflecting the blood of the sunken buried dead. Cold air turns to blow to the sea. Parting around the grey grave stones that wait. Then unseen out over the rolling waters that unlike life never pass.
31st January 1938, storms wage.
SS Alba, 2300 tonnes, lost and broken upon three boys rocks.
The St Ives Life Boat, Caroline Parsons broken in two.
Five lives gone. The unlucky few sleep, as Ernest Stitanovic, Engineer fifty years of age. Watery deep with others rested in that sea washed graveyard. Silently dreaming of far Budapest. Where he otherwise may have lived long with a loving wife, and boisterous children that never came.
There behind the boat house wall. Cloth capped and coated, booted young and small. Full of mischief, crouches Sail maker Bowman’s boy. Johnny with his skinny friend of eleven years from birth, Roddy Skelland who all know as Rat.
Catapults in hand as stones fly high over the roofs to land upon old Jones’s Alsatian, named Wolf.
He howls to be scolded and booted again.
Boys run laughing and stumbling to crash into vicar Long. Long in the face as Long by name. As straight and serious as a gutter runs to its drain. Grey haired and scowling never praying always occupied by is miscreant parishioners.
Dark is his uniform and serious his frame. He grabs the boys and to their homes late. Boots kicking as they no longer touch the ground.
There will be smacks and tears soon.
Tomorrow they will do it again.
Gulls call and land on the harbour wall, proud and watching.
Sunlight glints from wave tops as a Seal heads west to rest upon polished rocks after feeding.
Unaware, sat legs dangling in the early winter sun. A man and woman picnic as crumbs fall to those scavengers in white.
Those lovers laugh and kiss, eat and talk of nothings and somethings yet to be done. Their time they feel is endless as is that restless deceiving sea beyond.
The sun slips below the chapel tainting it’s walls orange, as night creeps from the east.
Slowly a full pink moon rises to float before flying over the whitened water. It following its own illuminated reflecting path.
Curtains are pulled and children sleep, as dogs curl and lovers cuddle.
All is silent, except for the sound of the sea and those long lost sailers below. Who drink from eternal dreams.
CHS
