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. ^_^

[Gandré]

this was an honest beautiful poem, written from the depth of your heart, and everybody can feel it..

[Brad]

you hit every sensory relay of the brain on this, such a warm and longing piece

[Emily B]

amen :)

[emmajoy]

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! Words painting scenes and time, powerfully yet somehow with that calm of centuries laid to rest. And how the truth shows its face too, 'Even the fishing brethrens ~ are sailing against the tide, ~ fishing for hope and dwinding stocks ~ in a lifelong storm.'

There's something in walking or standing a shore, suddenly chancing on an ancient something, weathered round yet showing its history - yes, Cornish tin and all the rest; or not merely looking but seeing what the panorama holds to its heart. Have written similarly tho not with the same poetic skill.