There was one specific day early Summer, I believe it was 1958; I was on the top deck of a double decker; it was so misty, it was like a bag but it was that swirly white that glowed, something like the drawing madness at Beachy head, as the bus rose above Marazion (no not flying) we emerged into a glistening glaring whiteness and looking back to Mount s bay, it was a sheet of white cotton. There was the upper third of The Mount standing forth like some knight s steed, flying across the heavens, and in the middle of the sea was a great and glorious swirl of, what can be best described as, an egg made of mist; it looked so wierd so ethereal; it is an image I carry in my head; one day I will regain my artist and make a painting of it all.
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.