Death in Paradise

Blue so deep you feel you could drown if you stared too long. Not like Westbrook Bay. Grey, brown, muddy brown, muddy grey. Sometimes, on sunny quiet days it’s green and nice. Rarely, perhaps once or twice a year, inviting.

The small birds descended, in their hundreds onto the busy working deck. Sparrows in the main but some finches too, and, some tiny exotics. We are 70 miles from land and the wind is strong and pushing them away from it. We are their last hope then, us or death.

The giant carousel laden with subsea umbilical turns, ceaselessly. Orange clad men, reflective tape at queer angles, dash about the deck highlighted in the harsh electric faux-day. The tiny feathered things are confused and panicked and weary.

We eat like stuffed Kings at a banquet yet there is no food for the arrivals, no water, no rest, no haven. The fluttering diminishes as the days pass. The numbers lessen, as does the attention paid by the unwilling observers.

Today, at first, just one then not long after, none.

About allatsea

Sixty year old master-mariner. Absolutely gorgeous. Well wedged.....when compared to a Nairobi street urchin. Sorted, in that I haven't been in court recently. Hopelessly optimistic, terminally disappointed. Good with cats and other fluffy things. No musical talent. Generous to a fault provided it's someone else's round. Political centreist with far right and left viewpoints. A green activist from the hydrocarbon position with nuclear leanings. Averse to avarice but always happy to receive lottery wins, gifts, windfalls, legacies, prizes and wet sloppy kisses.
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