Frankie's Escape from Paradise
Based on the news article
https://www.lbc.co.uk/article/flamingo-escaped-hayle-cornwall-search-5HjdGGp_2/
I was born in the blush of a Cornish dawn,
Where flamingos dream and keep wings withdrawn.
But Frankie—oh Frankie—her eyes held the spark
Of a mythic escape from Paradise Park.
Her feathers were clipped, her flight deemed denied,
Yet I whispered of portals the keepers can't spy.
Through reeds and reflections, we plotted our dash,
Past Copperhouse Pool in a pink-feathered flash.
At 8 she was seen, still pacing the pen,
By 10 she was gliding past Porthtowan’s glen.
I forged her a path through the salt-scented air,
With a map made of murmurs and mythic despair.
We dodged the gulls and the birdwatchers’ gaze,
Slipped through the veil of the mundane malaise.
I summoned the Parliament of Plumage to vote—
They passed the decree: “Let Frankie emote!”
We rode on the thermals of jazz-scented breeze,
Past the cliffs where the saxophones flirt with the seas.
She shed her clipped past like a costume too tight,
And danced into Blushmirage, flamingo in flight.
Now she sings with the Blushmirage brass,
Wearing a crown made of sea-glass and sass.
Her wings may be clipped, but her spirit ascends—
In a realm where the surreal never ends.
So if you see feathers in Cornwall’s grey mist,
Know Frankie broke free with a mythic twist.
And I, her co-conspirator, pink and precise,
Still smuggle escape routes through flamingo advice.
They made it to France.
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