
The party sails from Tresco to Bryher, encountering some turbulence en route :>o
The picture shows the upper part of Hangman's, complete with set of gallows :>/
Hangman's Island
The morning gifted clear skies, gentle seas,so mossops, Coo, FT began their trip
from Tresco, with its lily-laden breeze,
to Bryher Isle, with Samson at its tip.
'Now Bryher,' chirped dear Coo, 'is fairly small –
just two kilometres from head to toe
and one kilometre across its waist –
yet rises at that head to be quite tall;
upon its flanks bird's-foot and pansies grow,
and scarlet strawberries of tempting taste.'
'Yay, strawberries!' The merry mossops cheered.
'How pleasant, Coo,' FT approved and smiled.
But suddenly clouds rolled, the light went weird,
and from a lesser isle a voice came, wild:
'Aye, very pleasant, strawberries for thee!
and all those jaunty travellers passing by
this lesser isle of Hangman, as 'tis known;
there'll be no sunny crossing e'er for me,
for to this isle Bob Blake brought me to die,
to die!' the voice concluded, in a groan.
Crrr-ack! A bolt of lightning shot to ground,
and illumined a grim and ghastly sight –
a hanged man on the island's bouldered mound,
a victim of the said Blake's naval might;
his face was puce, his eyes were out on stalks,
his lips were strangely stretched into a leer,
while one hand clasped the noose around his throat,
and both legs were engaged in twitchy walks
as Robert Blake looked on with winning sneer –
'Last Royal outpost taken!' came his gloat.
'It's 1651,' FT deduced,
'and Blake has won the Scillies for the state.
The Royalists were very much reduced –
their tactics could not make their army great.'
'Alas!' Dear Coo and mossops sighed and wept,
for lives lost in the English Civil War
and other battles, many more besides –
but then the glinty gulls returned and swept
the storm away to distant tales of yore,
restoring cloudless skies and soothing tides.
Poetry by Coo & Co

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Written on 2018-08-28 at 19:54




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