The Poetry Kit
You couldn't make it to Trencrom Hill in spring.
Instead you set your easel by the Old Carn
and caught the sliver of darkening sea by its
western slope, the orange that held shadow
circles in its enveloping petals and the soft
azure blue of a hypnotic and permanent sky.
That winter you were near its base again,
seeing the hill as a misted grey, five layers
of background deep, with indistinct outline.
Your focus was the golden glint on bare willow,
framing the rectangular bottom edge, leading
the eye perfectly to the backward-leaning
green-brown lines of the field. Cornish hedges
appeared as thin black lines separating four
meadows of four greens, the granite farm
hiding by a stark winter copse. Captured on
canvass now, this landscape view across
Trevethoe Barton to Trencrom's misty heights.
On the next day of bright winter, you were
persuaded to climb with me. I led you through
the bracken to the holy well, secure, inspiring
and then upward to the stone-pillared gateway.
On smooth rounded boulders, we sat to watch
the birth of clouds and felt the energy flow from
St Michael's Mount, through Trencrom and out
towards Ireland. This was not a place to paint.
It was a place to breathe. A good place to breathe.
You asked me to write the day onto a page. I agreed
– but only after the day's scents had started to drift,
only after time had finally abandoned us and the long
winter sunset slowly darkened into familiar night.