Knave-Go-By

Straggle of semi-rural homes on the lee side of Camborne,

the west lane pointing down the peninsula towards Land's End.

Dog does somersaults with its voice as I traipse towards woodland.

Cattle low in a chorus line on the downs and a four wheel bike

opens its throat to pantomime roar in a field unseen.

That day was haunted by wood working.

A hand saw's metronome in a hidden shed

and a chainsaw desecrating a copse somewhere.

A cockerel startled itself with its own arpeggio

as I passed laughing.

The hamlet's name engraved on Cornwall's map

by the preaching presence of John Wesley

casting caustic comment on some long forgotten jeerer

who failed to ignite at His Word.

Wood song, canine scales, fowl clowns,

the orchestra of tools warming up.

I felt the place-name peculiarly applied to myself

as I passed through.