Jamie Andrews

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.