the gannet

The Gannet




A gannet chick, sits there alone,

Boulders surround him,

Behind him a tree clings onto the cliff edge,

The sea echoes his name, summoning him to take that leap of faith,

Does he stay or does he go?

Fallen from the safety of his nest,

With no way back up,

He is faced with the only choice left,

Death or life,

What one will it be?





A cloth, a physical remembrance of a task once done,

Of a deed of a memory, of a time enjoyed by all,

To celebrate a life in passing,

On a journey to neither here nor there,

Just not to yesteryear,

Yet, only to tomorrow.

A photo, to bring air to that, that was once,

Magically capturing those images that do not and can not appear more,

A gift, not wrapped in silk paper,

Nor left lying below lights and green leaves, capped in snow,

But surrounded in that essence, of greatness,

Words, stumble in the dark, bumping into each other, whilst riding the zorb,

Mother earth spits out her fiery breath,

Heating the waters beneath her, turning her soil into angry lahars,

Yet still the cows, will be late to the shed,

And the calves will still cry, when left alone at night,

Life, will try with all its might, to make sense of this fuss,

Yet, still those words will not complete that sentence,

Which are washed away by the heavy rains of Linton,

Then so perhaps the greatest gift of all is not what is given,

Yet is what is received,



That white gannet, no longer a chick,

Circles high above,

Admiring the beauty beneath him,

A lump floats down his throat, a miracle has occurred,

Yet life has not stopped, thus he has fed his appetite,

And with a quick flick of his giant white wing,

He disappears from the cape, over the horizon,

Carrying that gift deep inside, forever.