Cornish Saints

I like the fact that few of you came from here;

why wouldn’t you visit this peninsula

for your holidays?

More than that, the people

accepted the love praise

from their waves.

(Row the man ashore.)

Lyonesse before Arthur,

a sea sunk borough

will bells for mermen alone,

xylophone bones of the

sunken Celts past Scilly.

I keep coming back to those Irish monks

surfing across the ocean on

tombstones and wonder

how inappropriate it is.

Such in the graceless wonder

of the place they found.

The joy of the strand,

land of Dumnonii,

tin rich for cold Roman eyes.

Phonecians made horns

from the unpromising ore,

blowing St Michael ashore

at his amazing mount.

(Hoar rock in the Wood,

its petrified name means.)

I must admit seeing St Perran

(he of the umpteen beaches)

sitting by the strand,

deep in freeform discussion

with John Coltrane.

(Saxophone sea, makes sense.)

Q Celts from the west,

sillibant softer P Celts

in exchange with Armorica,

jazz inbetween.