Church Cove to Porthleven
‘A popular route on the Lizard Peninsula’ –
they know it well – leaving the map in the car,
they set off, turning their backs on church and edge
of golf course, knowing there is treasure by Gunwalloe,
but for a time only: chubby clouds like cherubs,
the sun nudging shadows along the wrinkled faces
of cliffs, the wind urging their legs along the path, stop-
starting their bodies with sudden shocks, or startling
gulls that wheel and keen in the wake of their passing,
while the first spray of rain already laps the worn
struts of the rotted bench.
Their destination scarved
by mist, blurred by rain, blunted by brute wind, they
become part of the fret lapping the shore, vaulting the
bar, licking sand and sea kale, swarming among the fog-
shrouded trees, carried by wind and water like buoys
carelessly tossed among invisible waves, cows quizzically
chewing over their mad reckless procession into nowhere,
wry tears of snot rain glistening on their snouts,
watching the blind thrust of each stubborn step.
The town is invisible, yet these pilgrims trudge,
trusting in the map and their battered reminiscence,
past landslip and rockfall, torn grass, furrowed sand,
and a few distant shapes of hunched Lowry ciphers
in bespoke waterproofs, till, dropping steeply, boots
leaden, legs shaking with cramp from their helpless hurtling,
they glimpse, lifted from beneath the shawl of the sea,
a harbour wall and Porthleven’s Trumpton clock,
as they wait to squat for lunch.
They lurch to a halt,
and feel the light gleam on their cheese sandwiches;
tea from a flask is their cocktail, and a tropical paradise
enshrined in a shared banana – they envy the mob
licking ice cream, the cafe crowd with half-closed eyes,
and zimmer framed explorers studiously boarding a bus:
but pride and poverty are the mute starting handles
for the engines of their return; their spur, the recollection
of a shared experience, through these landmarked routes –
through each false step, dead end, uneven line,
reaching their end, their way, in their own time.
Jeff Gallagher grew up in Manchester. He has been a teacher of English and Latin. His poems have been widely published in magazines and online, including Rialto, New Critique, The Madrigal, A New Ulster and Eat The Storms. He has also appeared in an Oscar-winning movie. He has no handles.
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