I’m in
Bodmin,
Bodmin-by-the-Sea;
all of me
is in a part of Bodmin;
but, soon I’ll be
out of Bodmin,
then I’ll be Bodmin free.
The most important thing about a poem…
is it’s title.
The title is absolutely vital.
Without that…
it could be seen
as any old tat.
The content is not so important;
as in this poem
where the title
and ‘the stuff that dreams are made on’
are as connected
as Earth and the Moon are
by a cable car.
“More?”
“Yes.”
“On the moor?”
“Always on the moor
knocking on the door
wanting to come in;
and there’s this little church
the mizzle seems to search it out
and when it finds it
it hides it
within.”
“It’s a sin!”
“That it is.”
“There’s more mizzle on the moor!”
‘Again?’ we question –
as if it was unusual.
Since the Tin miners departed,
all we have left is Irony.
They went around the globe –
not the pub –
and, now, there can be found
at the bottom of every hole in the ground
a Cornishman digging his way home.
“Am I ‘Going Bodmin’?
Am I going crazy?
Am I as weird as a Theramin?
Am I twice as lazy?
Am I about
to holler out:
‘I’m Going Bodmin!’?
Am I as Lupin as a Daisy?”
Just because I can’t see the Cheesewring,
doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I stand and stare,
as somebody there
might be staring back
and not seeing me –
and I exist
to that I’ll agree.
So, I’ll take it for granted,
ignore the doubts that I’ve planted,
and believe it is well.
I’ll pop back later,
to update my data,
and with clarity tell
that ‘the Cheesewring is there!’
Proclaim the fact,
toll the bell,
and sleep easy for another night
knowing that all is well,
all is alright.
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