RETURN TO WARLEGGAN

On my overdue return to Warleggan
It was nothing like before,
As I walked alone, deep in thought
Through that creaking, iron studded door.
The brooding church enveloped me
In its musty, dusty gloom,
I crossed to the leathern visitors book
In the cold and dark ecclesiastical tomb.
Our names still there, excitedly etched
Over many turned, mellowed page,
Like Tristan and Isolde of legend
We were the doomed of the new age.
It'd been here, in this haunted church
Deep in Cornwall's portentous moor,
When one was we, in a lovers mist
Serenaded by the hooded jackdaw.
She'd stood just there at rusty gate
Shivering with cold and fear,
Amongst lichened grave and gravel path
Seeing her still, my eye holds off a tear.
I once again peered up the broken tower
Where the reverend breathed his last,
Then heard the cry of a love I'd had
Her beautiful eyes twinkle from the past.
I'd wandered among the dead
Where escalibur lay in Dozmary pool,
Tasted the pasties in Jamaica Inn
Reminiscing like a lovelorn fool.
Today, I will scale Camelot
And stare wistfully into the recent past
Remembering my own Queen Guinevere,
And the love that couldn't last.
My return to the church at Warleggan
Was how it was meant to be
It was once the life ahead of us
But, now it's just all about me.

Phil Hall.  June 2017

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