The Gutting

Ah there’s always a dark side.

In The Yachtsman, you have a sunny
blue skied fair weather kind of a day.

Here, the clouds thicken.

The air was heavy and it was deep into the beyond of the shoulder season.
Out in the gun metal grey waters of the harbor
only the heartiest of working vessels were moored.

The wind was kicking up
and we had just come from the Newes
with bellies full of chowder and a pint or two of October ale
and I thought I could hear a steady tapping…
just there coming around the corner behind us…
like the wooden peg of a leg
tap tap tapping on the weathered cobbled stone.

I reached over
pulled up the collar of Herself’s Pea Coat
and snuggled closer for the warmth
and we made our way down to the dockside.

‘Twas then I heard the screaming.
Ghastly wales, a staccato of screeching
and a frenzy of feathers seemed to come at us from all directions.

The water churned and the sky was a roiling mass of gulls.
Through the miasma of wings I could see a figure.
A lone fisherman was tearing out the guts of his supper.

It seemed as if all of the island flock was massing and thrashing
to win the foul spoils of his long cold day at sea.

The gruesome sight was more than I could bear
and my chowder began to repeat.

Just before I managed to steer us away
in the midst of the carnage and chaos
I caught a glimmer of light.

Perched on top of the blood red piling
with a gaping maw of frothing yellow beak
a white throated gull threw back her head
and just
shudderingly
and stunningly
laughed.

The fisherman turned his head.

And I will swear that I saw
a silvery, slithery, black eye patch.