They must have missed their flight.
Late again for the annual whitewall conference.
All the best seats taken.
They had to settle in with the rough crowd, the rowdy bunch.
However, they managed to go fairly unnoticed.
If it weren't for the rifle trained directly on them.
This sniper was benign.
The rifle had no rounds.
The veteran mercenary shows mercy, every time.
I caught a glimpse of his prey.
He offered me a look, it felt like he was offering an illicit drug.
And it was.
I saw colours, next to colours that don't belong.
I saw a spectacle in the reticle.
I saw the latecomers.
Amongst the chaos I saw comfort.
Stepping back, my lack of vision became apparent.
I could see white. And bits of black.
Where we're the bands of incredible.
I could see cliff and grass and shit and sky but why could I not see them with my own two.
I popped back down for another look through the tube.
A perfect window in to their world.
And I was glad, glad I couldn't see them.
It was a privilege to have that window, it would be folly to smash it.
Besides there were others.
Miriad, or so.
Guillemots glide from the mottled rock, Guilded in the afternoon.
Beating their inadequate wings to slow the advancing sea.
Not blessed with flight, they have earned it.
The ganets look skyward, and ask the ether for permission to defy gravity.
A prayer to the gods that granted them such grace.
These guests have had the chalky cliffs penciled in all year.
But this is where they belong.
We are the guests.
We build the nests.
Timber turrets, unnaturally anchored to the ancient rock.
I took a walk on that ripped edge of England, with no idea what I'd find.
I walked back from the edge with new friends in mind.
It's been many weeks since.
Plus a few days in change.
I can't help wondering if humans had wings, would we still use planes?
