on a St. Ives
beach, circa eighty-two.
The palette used
for conjuring this scene
is rain washed
vermilion for the bathing hut,
trawler boat
blue for the wind-whipped cagoule
and the sand is anaemic
as egg timer grain.
But there in the
centre, firmly clasped
between two
hands, a bun the size
of a small boy’s
head emits a seemingly
radioactive glow
of saffron,
lurid yellow
that emanates
like the Christ
child’s halo in devotionals
or the fulgent
beam of a Davy Lamp.
Then, bored into
this bright yeast wall
are currants as
black as Wesley’s gown
and as large and
round as the fifteen besants
on Kernow’s
crest, an inversion of
the black and
gold above Onen Hag Oll,
and encased in a
shell that subtly shifts
with the light,
like a gemstone, from copper to bronze.
Sunday brought grape
juice and communion cubed bread
but on this day
the taste of Methodism was good.
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