Day 9

A gull alit, a-lightly, on a length of timber as the timbre of its undulating call caused crashing waves of echoed sound to bridge the Avon. It preened at its grey-tinged feathers before pacing the abutment’s edge.

Day 4

“Avast!” the axe-fall blade, abrupt, demanded death-industrial: it called, it falled, found its fortune to be laid upon the wharfway stone.