Morwenstow

Driving I come upon the church unexpectedly
crouching in an ancient grove,
twig thicket accusing a low windy sky,
and four fingers of a Norman spire.
Graveyard and moss-covered celtic crosses
give nothing away.
I park.
Pursue a muddy path
past a half dozen elderly parishioners
and a fully airborn chaplain waving.
Bent against horizontal rain
threatening to become snow
I sludge through fields of wet sheep,
acrylic blue marking unfortunate hind-quarters.
I climb concentric walls of stone,
overgrown and remerging with the rolling scape.
Cliff
edge.
Surf cut by a line of black razor rocks
like a serrated tail, ocean-bound.
Some ancient deity has slashed the green Cornish side,
peeled the flesh back and buried it in deep,
leaving the blood of the land to blacken,
lest we forget.
But we forget.
My eyes trace the primordial scrub of the cliffs,
arc upward ‘cross manicured verdure
to Norman stone only a millennium old.
My gaze comes to fall on a family of
satellite saucers, domes and antennae spires,
creatures evolved to decipher All.
Not the armoured animals that once roamed these heights,
not a Christian deity,
not the dragons that reigned in legend here:
a new, more terrifying, set of monsters,
peer between the hedgerows,
and into my grave.

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