Wet were the ways twisting through to Looe
and to Tintangle then round those solid stone
phalanges fingering accusingly at heaven where
we wandered with hand-gloved hands
to love in hayfields and on golden sands.
Do you remember sitting on that lichen licked
church stone wall? Do you recall? Our drive
to that place, and the farmstead and Pablo’s dog?
Do you remember how your feet wept crimson
up to St. Michael’s Mount? Or how they’d press
the golden sand where there they would sunder
and we with the wash-waves rolled like thunder?
Those sunny days and rain-swept lanes are
like the frozen frames of our long lost cameras.
Now the freeboards and their fishermen’s bands
have, like you now, sailed from the golden sands.
Our bond was of Cornish metal and like that ore
we faded. Distance now holds our storm and strife
and we keep safe in tin cases memories of our life.
Wild claws slash the jagged rocks at our lands end.
The omnipotent ocean separates us from blows
we rained down upon our hearts and minds.
Mine now beats free from the stonewalls and
blood stained glass we constructed for ourselves.
Yet I’ll never forget those kisses on that heathen
damp golden sand, or the sweet sward of Eden.
Here my lonely weather-beaten heart is warmed,
by a Mexican tide reaching where I abide in solitude
standing guard on the sentinel slopes and cliff tops
watching the seething swell, or rain fall on rocks
and the fisher-folk and the sun-kissed golden sands
now I’m released from the cold stone of your hands.
Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15