Cornwall

Cornwall.

 

M1, M42, M5

the steady rythm of motorway miles

is unusually welcome.

The thrum of the engine

eating up the miles

A road trip as a salve

 

Broadwoodwidger.

 

Five hours of travel,

ready conversation ebbs and flows

new stories, old information

gladly retold.

Kernow appears in the dip of a valley

Belatedly, unexpectedly.

 

Mawgan Porth.

 

Fresh modernism contrasts

the cheerful seaside

The houses hunched, crouched

betray the winter storms

Nobody lives here.

 

Enodoc.

 

Gulls wheel and bicker

rooks fuss and bark

the muffle, bored lilt of a lifeguard

surfers to the left, swimmers in the middle.

 

Porthtowan.

 

Impossible wetsuits

spin cycle surf

platefuls of foam

laughing, laughing

 

Heligan.

 

Warm cotton against revitalised skin

sun, sea and salt sting my cheeks

the last gasp of summer

cold, pink wine incongruous

in plastic

 

Mithian.

 

Basking in the warmth, cyan sky

wood fired hot tubs

luxurious

only the small logs will do

says the surfer

they get going alright

 

St. Mawes.

 

Secret Garden

Cloistered privacy

Red wine and walnut whips

the gulls now creak

 

The promise of sex

weighs heavy in this place

or maybe thats me,

thinking,

everyone’s at it in a place like this

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