Straggle of semi-rural homes on the lee side of Camborne,
the west lane pointing down the peninsula towards Land's End.
Dog does somersaults with its voice as I traipse towards woodland.
Cattle low in a chorus line on the downs and a four wheel bike
opens its throat to pantomime roar in a field unseen.
That day was haunted by wood working.
A hand saw's metronome in a hidden shed
and a chainsaw desecrating a copse somewhere.
A cockerel startled itself with its own arpeggio
as I passed laughing.
The hamlet's name engraved on Cornwall's map
by the preaching presence of John Wesley
casting caustic comment on some long forgotten jeerer
who failed to ignite at His Word.
Wood song, canine scales, fowl clowns,
the orchestra of tools warming up.
I felt the place-name peculiarly applied to myself
as I passed through.