And then to the Harbour. I was hunting cormorants, as I have an idea for a picture involving them. They're often sitting around on pontoons or buoys, wings spread in benediction. But there weren't any today. Though there was a nice crop of poppies on Phoenix Quay.
Heading for St Nicholas Market, I saw a peregrine falcon spiralling up in a thermal, high above the spire of Christ Church. I tried, and failed, to get a good photo of it, by which time it was a tiny dot in the sky. A chap with a stall full of very fresh carrots asked if the photography was a hobby.
"It's more a project," I said.
"Would you like some carrots?" he asked, brandishing a bunch.
"I'm afraid I've already got some at home," I said.
He wordlessly handed me a single carrot anyway. I was charmed. It's not often that sort of thing happens to me. It was very cheerful, the carrot, with its green frondy stuff waving out of my bike pannier.
So I wrote a crap poem. Which can be more fun than writing a good one.
What profits it the peregrine, if, lofting on the summer breeze,
Above the busy Bristol street where veg is sold and people fret,
And farmers proudly hand out carrots fresh from Somerset,
With green fronds on the top... and higher still he goes, so high that he's
Now almost lost in cloud, become a dot?
I've got the carrot; he has not.