Always a sea crossing
to the best of places…
Those which hummed with magic,
that exhaled gorse and iodine.
Dreams still of clambering anthropomorphic granite;
small feet on jagged noses
of gnarled beings gazing stern
on turquoise horizons
that shifted through navy or grey.
Lure of legends forged in rocky DNA
of glistening isles skirted by time,
and patinated with memories.

~ Polly Oliver 2020

This poem came from a sense of hiraeth about childhood holidays on the Isles of Scilly (a gold-plated holiday now, much more genteel than all those years ago) and Brittany’s magical north west. The nostalgia is as much for lost childhood as it is for the places which still hold their soul when the tourists are gone.

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