The Creek at Mylor

A single beacon haunts the creek,
Patrolled by silhouettes
Of Cornish folk and Kernow’s fleet.

The tide has ploughed
With its hand and has chalked
Its way home, to sea and cloud.

The trees on the skyline shake a fist
Against the saddened midnight mist.

The evening fled without a fight,
Summoning this empty night.


Firewood

Until I run out of firewood
I will always pine for you.
The kindling carries a constant glow,
The wood bursts; it does not matter if it should.
A whirlwind engulfs all I knew,
From the ash anything can grow.


One Week

“You are what I do not want”
is refreshing, even when heard
for the hundredth time. Now said
not just once but for many weeks.

So now I am weak and enact  
anything you say.
You fall asleep and I listen
for my name in your dreams.

Hooded in hair you hide,
Even your tongue is closed,
Even now your lips are closed:
I am what you do not want.

Your words rolled into one mass
Which knocked me so far down into
A hopeless premise; this is what you wanted.
On my back I stare at you.


Irreparable

He got back in his car and reversed
all the way up the lanes and A roads.
As he approached the spot, the fox
he had strewn across the road did not
retrace his steps, nor his death. So
he broke down in the road.

When in search of diamonds deal out
the spades and dig into the cards. Become
your own king, until you are fooled
by fifty-two card pickup. Spend all
your time unshuffling but they’re
mixed with another pack and torn into four.

When I get home I lie crying
by the bin, pulling the egg shells out,
stuffing the yoke back in.
I use up all the tape and still,
if I nurse them under a warm lamp,
not one chick will be born this year.


A Waste of Time

We woke up at one o’clock
Without a name.
On the wood was left a note
Written in flame,

Which spread across the blankness
“This seat is insecure.”
So when we sat upon it
Our minds became unsure.

At the shore he held in his arms
A little buoy.
Cast him out to sea:
His idleness we must employ.

In the mourning we felt empty
For we had killed another day.
We spent it preparing for the end
And drinking to drown our dismay.


St. Ives in July

My clothes give the impression of wings,
If I jump I will fly from here.
One million eyes all roofed in slate,
One million waves all roofed in cloud.

A graveyard slopes into the sea
As if it wished to join the fish.
The dark marks on the sea show
Seals which swim from shore.

This church stands from time immemorial;
I remain until time unknown.
The wind stirs my mind and helps to find
A stolid contentment, to which I will return.