The Sunken
‘Will all Great Neptune –‘
Trevillion cries,
on horseback mounted;
bound for St Michael’s:
between a trot and canter,
abandoning lance,
raising his visor,
skimming his hevva dance
on top of black churning
backwash.
Did not the sea lick hooves,
lap fetlocks,
advance on her pastern? As
the land dropped,
Admiral Benbow himself
stirred his ghost
to walk
summoned Baines – ‘Cease
your spinning,
there are greater yarns
than these to be told.’
For it has come to this –
that gold scimitar
bending Marazion into
Mousehole far
as soft Devonian bounded
by granite blocks,
owes dues to her
serpentine and schist rocks –
is invaded, has fallen.
Dogs, choked by string
do strut and fret, yap at
the smallest thing
that stirs within oceans
deep, trip the unwary,
lift legs to leave their
mustard marks.
Baying hollowed hordes
bellow nothings
to scroll and ring across
the retreating bay –
there is nothing left they
did not nothing say.
And that once great
sucked reefs - fled to sink
itself within distress.
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