Bosigran crag is a face.
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