A howl on Eden karrek
I heard a poem and ended up at Godrevy,
my friend and I were cold damp, put out and grumpy,
three days spent trudging in a wet grey mess,
we searched for any old rock where light held heat,
my socks, sodden and miserable, felt dreadful,
slightly disgruntled, I decided to bear it,
spreading my thin green groundsheet on stone.
A chip in my kettle reflected the moon, which reflects the sun,
which hadn’t been very generous.
Heat radiated from the rock, our backsides are grateful,
the kettle boils, a brew is poured and we look up.
Food is produced, the bag that held it had fulfilled its purpose,
I’d never been fond of that bag, but now I was,
the stars twinkle above us.
My friend blows her nose then looks my way,
‘Did you know howl is Cornish for light..?’
I didn’t… ‘Karrek,’ I reply,
‘What?’ she asks, I clear my throat,
‘Karrek… I think it’s cornish for rock,’
‘Oh I see,’ she replies.
Well she started it.
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