CornwallA Poem by Sel WhiteleyLast 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. © 2011 Sel WhiteleyFeatured Review
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Added on April 19, 2011Last Updated on May 4, 2011 Author
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