Tag Archives: Cornwall

The Cornish Chough

The Cornish Chough

The Cornish Chough

said “I’ve had enough!”

and left our coast for ever.

But, it did come back

to supply the lack

and spread its Cornish feather.

Upon the shield

atop the field

of fifteen golden bezants

With fisherman and miner

And ‘Onan Hag Oll’, one and all –

our motto – it lends its presence,


Trees, Sheep, and the Sky.

Trees, Sheep, and the Sky.

See here for the photograph that inspired the words – G:)

It’s about the trees,

or the sheep,

or the sky.

Swaying in the breeze;

chewing the Winter feed;

or hanging ominously above us –

you know which is to which.

All together

in one picture

they sit side by side,


by Nature.



A little walk on the cool side;

maybe, I would prefer the pool side;

but, upon reflection,

my selection

is just what is needed

to clear away the cobwebs.

“Who Stole Caradon Hill?”

“Who Stole Caradon Hill?”

Somebody stole Caradon Hill! –

it was gone when I went there, yesterday;

it’s quite big,

I couldn’t have missed it,

and I was definitely looking the right way.

Perhaps it will come back

all of its own accord;

for who could have stolen a hill that big;

but, if it doesn’t…

no, that doesn’t bear thinking about…

Oh, now, today, it’s back;

let’s dance a little jig.

“Can you hear the bells, Cousin Jack?”

“Can you hear the bells, Cousin Jack?”

I can hear the bells of Menheniot

calling me to prayer;

but, maybe they aren’t calling loud enough

for me to travel there.

“St. Lalluwy…” I call,

“Why so do you ring;

there’s twenty thousand Cornishmen

who cannot hear a thing.”

We are going to Looe.

We are going to Looe.

Excited, we are,

by the fact

that we are toodling

off to Looe, today.

So excited, that I

am word-doodling

about it.

We shall see gulls,

boats, the Banjo Pier,

because all of those things,

when in Looe,

are here.

Walking the lanes,

popping in shops,

stop for a coffee,

Looe is the tops.

And, when all’s said and done,

our day out in Looe

is guaranteed fun.

A Poem For a Devonian Poetry Evening.

A Poem For a Devonian Poetry Evening.

East Cornwall is East Cornwall

and West Devon is West Devon

and never the Twain shall meet,

apart from along the length of the Tamar;

and that bit up near Bude

(which isn’t technically East Cornwall);

but, you know where I mean,

that bit where the road takes you through about a mile of Devon:

take my word, when I say

that my cry of: ‘I was only going to the garden centre!’ is often heard

whenever we choose to go that way.

As for Plymouth…

well, it is its own special place,

kingdom, province, municipality,

and in all probability

is twinned with an enclave

of Plymovians in Inner Mongolia or Outer Space.

Plympton, on the other hand,

Is a different kettle of fish;

the people there are very nice

they have happy, smiling faces,

freely give concise advice

donate generously to charity,

take many courses on crochet and pottery;

and they are especially keen

on supporting local poetry.

In fact, I have heard, that once

they even applauded a visitor from Cornwall at their poetry recital

when his poem was done.