Winged ribbon on lower back

The gull came back again this morning, the one with the torn left wing, and it landed on the gallery rail as though it had an appointment with me. I have given up trying to shoo it. Mr Penhallow at the chandlery says a gull that returns is a gull that has decided something, and I suppose I have decided to let it.

Since the storm I have been tying grey silk ribbon to the rail where the gulls perch. Your ribbon, the one you left in the kitchen drawer the summer you went to Plymouth, the one with the frayed edge. I cut it into lengths and knot them round the iron, one for each boat that has not come back to Porthgwidden in the last ten years. It sounds foolish written down. The lads at the harbour laugh, but they touch the ribbons when they pass, which is more than they do for the lamp.

Thursday the light failed for an hour and the fog came in thick as wool. I stood at the rail with the lamp unlit beside me and heard the bell buoy out past the point, ringing like a thing that had lost its way. Then the gull lifted off, circled once over the water, and dropped low towards the rocks. A minute later the fog thinned and there was the Mary Ann, creeping in on the swell with her lantern swinging.

I have not untied the ribbons. I think I shall leave them until the rail rusts through. Come in the spring if you can. The gull will want to meet you.

Yours in haste, Eleanor