Tintagel

I wandered through a forest
In the Cornish countryside
Like some grand old quest
Through where giants and elves used to hide.

Branches gnarled like magic wands,
Wearing robes of moss and ivy,
Bejeweled with streams and ponds
Hiding in each forest valley.

Then, I wandered further out
To where the rolling Cornish hills
End their cavernous hedge lined routes
And crash down with a thrill.

Smashing with rock against ocean,
The land pounds the immense coast,
A battle of vast proportion
Observed from my earthly post.

The Forces of Man stand tall and proud
Filled up with stubborn rock,
Draped in a grassy green shroud,
Over the eons, taking stock.

The Forces of Nature peer back,
So endlessly flat and deep,
An earthquake or tidal attack
Would put man to fatal sleep.

Speckled on the battlefield
Are stairways, bridges, boats, and paths
Where tiny people try not to yield
To the war’s grinding wrath.

Pushing forward on their way
Cherishing virtue in their hearts
Waking up each day,
Creating beauty by playing their parts.

There, perched upon a mountain,
Confronting the timeless sea
Are Tintagel Castle’s ruins,
Where King Arthur came to be.

The Canal Boat

Bump! Bang! The boat rumbles beneath my feet,
Crashing against the hard canal bank,
“Permanent damage?” I ask, “will it sink?”
Vibrating passengers sneer from their seats.
At this point, a sharp turn seems discreet.
Bump! Bang! Now, we hit the opposite bank,
Like a convulsing fish in a small tank,
My wide swiveling folly seems complete.

How smooth and lovely can be Old England
When you use short, frequent changes in course,
Tempering each move with opposite force,
Thus, life’s narrow path molds an alert hand.

Through the long, dark tunnel I guide the boat,
At an hour’s bright end we softly float.