When we are there, face to the west, alone.
Walk on, savour the resonance, enclosed by measure.
Harked to, immersed in our present, we stumble.
Blessed by good weather, cleansed by chill wind,
wrapped and swaddling.
Somehow to be back, at the sad end of the year,
at last, we abide.
Come closer in, for warmth and comfort,
behind the rock.
Out of the wind, huddle closer as the time passes.
Alone here, the sky to read, the wind to watch,
the sea shake, reave and wave.
Down on the sand below, birds hunt,
harsh challenge in the thrift.
Again from the north, it shaves in, colder.
Shrug on the load, and make no haste.
Take the stile, our stone paved paths, change.
At the last grasp of the headland, await,
the time of the island’s passing,
at the knighted rock hollow.
Deep in the zawn, horseback,
high grasses and fern.
Wipe wind tears from your eyes,
and press inwards.
To prevail, in this cut in the hillside,
eroded by the sea, and ancient stannary.
It now marks a state, and us changed.
Once more into the wind, sky-blown tears us.
Across the promised fields,
where rough cattle shake the menhir,
down to the fallow farm.
Keep to us our rightful way,
holding still the lanes.
The rough built Cornish walls,
suffer us away, once more, home.

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