L I t T e R

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Mark Goodwin

Bosigran & Rain, West Penwith

Bosigran crag is a face.
of Under-Cornwall;

a granite smile meeting light;
a ground-mouth tasting sea.

Bosigran is a vast fossil
of some impossible lost beast.

Bosigran is where the landís frame is revealed.

Bosigran crag is a village
of blocks, cracks, roofs & slabs;

or a capsizing cathedral.

The villagers & priests & congregations, with their
metal ingots ringing & lurid ropes slithering, touch

the tilted streets of stone

with their fingers. They read
a sturdy & pure Book of biting Braille.

Bosigran is the rim of a crashed moon.

Bosigran crag is crinkled silver foil pulling
the whole Sun into the ground.

Hot Cornish light is tightened
here like a spring. But

today, just beyond
the white chess-piece of Pendeen Watch,

the sky is being lewd with the sea through
a swirling skirt of grey

railings all jangling. A squall
is coming our way. Within a blink

of the skyís eye
a shroud shivers across the crag. Instantly

Bosigran is a spilled jewellery-box;
a disarray of gems tumbling down its shelves.

All the rock-Braille shines, and where we touch
it it yields

to our fingers a slick subtext of snake-skin.

We are suddenly adventure-drenched,
your face hot with glee. We pick

our way across a sizzling moon.

Our clothes have become soaked ghosts
of our selves clinging

to our flesh. We cling

on to Bosigranís
glossy bone.

Engine House in Air, West Penwith

as sediment
crows whirl
a tower


sky pulls all         colours away

gorse bursts
as scarred lungs

briars bind

as minersí fingers

Copyright © Mark Goodwin, 2007