Cornwall

Last Saturday, I found a rock,

half-fossilised coal, half-wood,

light as a sparrow on my palm,

a stone smoothed by the ocean currents

of this wild Atlantic.  

An ancient geology,

known only to tin miners.

 

I mused on the shoreline,

to the treasures secreted in caves

by smugglers, thought how wreckers

once lit this shore with miscreant lamps,

centuries extinguished.

Even the fishing brethrens

are sailing against the tide,

fishing for hope and dwinding stocks

in a lifelong storm.

 

I listened for the elevated symphony

of water on rock. After we left the bay,

I almost heard it in the cider taverns

and later in the birdsong in the rose garden.

 

In the dark soil of my homeland,

Are the earthed over shafts

of millennia old mines, dug by Celts,

in a landscape they still own.

 

Wild garlic  is cast like stars in the fields,  

the hawthorn brightens hedges

and I keep a pulsing, three million year old

stone in my pocket,

retelling the lineage of my Cornwall.

Reviews

[LoneWolf]

This poem is a barrage of emotion, I think it’s eloquent to an extent, the way you’ve implemented complex words with simplistic objects and scenery is pleasing. I think you’ve reached the pinnacle of this writing style, perhaps you might try a new avenue with your next piece; possibly something with more tangible language? I’ve often been tempted to use words like, “cacophony” simply because the word is magnificent *laughs* hmm the trick is to be careful not to, “over season” a write with such words. *smiles kindly* not that you’re guilty of this here, actually, your poem is one of the few I’ve read with a sincere balance between imagery and vocabulary. In a sense I’m advocating that writers with less skill would accomplish more with their writing if they limited themselves to more honest and concrete word choices. ^_^

[poetry-kiddo alienbaba]

nice ending verse...feels good.

[Donald Meikle]

Barb had a humming bird in her hand the other morning. She thought it dead but tried to warm it with her breath. She put it in one of her plant pots. five minutes later it was gone. Celts,Walloons an' all never give up anything. For mornin' sounds it's hard to beat North Wales.

[Lizy Coale]

I love your poetry! It's all so vivid and beautiful. (:

[Tommy]

I love the feel of this, the story seems to pull the reader out to sea, wondering where we are going, and then in the end the tidal flow pulls the reader right back in, like we had to take the ride to fully feel this great discovery…A favorite!

Great Write!
RLG,
Tommy

[Bertie]

Fantastic ! I adore Cornwall but only get to visit it rarely so to read this and to be so immediately transported back there...brilliant.
It's also interesting how I feel I'm getting a historical/social commentary on not just the beautiful landscape but the people who over the centuries have helped to craft and cultivate so much of what makes cornwall such an enigman to me..
Well done :)

[arbitrary jane]

the land is in you. its history and meaning. it makes me wish i had anything half so substantial in which to sink my roots.

[Joiedevivre]

Such an evocative piece. It feels like a salty timeless spring full of mystery, wonder and beauty. I lived in England for some years, I really regret not making it to Cornwall, even more after reading this!

[Siddhartha]

Oh, the is as beautiful as the way you tell it. We all are drfting along, trying to carve out our lineage and find our place here. It takes a poet to hear the hidden symphony and the grand designs of this universe. You have that poetic heart, one that finds rhyme amidst all the cacophony and a sensitive pen. This one was magical. Took me to neverneverland aeons back in time.

[Robin]

a friend of mine spent a summer in Helston , you expanded my vision of it .