The party arrives on Bryher and heads to Hell Bay :>o
The image is 'Hell Bay, Bryher in a storm', from the Royal Cornwall Museum :>)
Hell BayThe Sun prevailed as mossops, Coo, and FT reached the sandy shore
of Bryher Isle, an island 'fairly small', as Coo had chirped before,
yet on its left flank one Great Pool, where people used to dig for peat,
and left-er still, Hell Bay Hotel, where one may book a lavish suite.
'The Bay seems calm,' Coo noted, as the party sat upon the deck
and munched Head Chef's Light Bites; 'I see no evidence of hellish wreck.'
FT agreed, and mossops nodded, tucking in to Cornish cheese,
but, 'Well, this ain't Hell Bay!' came explanation through the balmy breeze.
A black storm petrel landed on the table. 'Hey!' he greeted all,
'so my name's Pete, and Hell Bay's that way, other side of rocky wall.
I'll show you, if you like, that's once you've finished up your bread and things.'
Pete nodded to the plate of food, while leaning back on white-band wings.
'Yay Pete!' the merry mossops cheered, and FT offered Pete some bread;
he took this in his sharp black beak and while he ate he bobbed his head,
then, 'This way, folks!' he ushered, and the party duly started forth,
with coast to left, Great Pool to right, and generally travelling north.
The trip was brief, but with a rise towards a steep and rocky cove;
'Well, here we are!' said Petrel Pete. 'For centuries, west waves have drove
all sorts of shippings to this bay and smashed them on the shore, like there.'
Pete gestured to a pile of rocks. 'It's sharp, see, it can really tear.
'Course nowadays, most sailors know the routes to steer around this isle,'
the guide continued, 'even in the storms, when weather's specially vile –
Atlantic waves come crashing in as though a giant's swimming near,
the clouds roll over, rain streaks down, and wind starts shrieking in your ear!'
'That sounds dramatic, Pete!' breathed Coo. 'It's that alright!' the petrel grinned,
'like nothing else I've heard on Earth, the fury of that western wind!
Then up we fly, we storming petrels, black-and-white, flut-flutter, glide,
while thunder rumbles, lightning strikes, hail pelts us too – it's quite a ride!
'And when I'm at the storm's wild eye, I think I see the poor drowned souls,'
Pete added, 'in their tattered clothes and clinging to the masts and poles
of all the ships went down at Hell.' 'A haunted bay,' opined FT.
The petrel bobbed his head, yet grinned again upon the thrashing sea.
Poetry by Coo & Co
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Written on 2018-09-03 at 19:44
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