CORNISH MEMORIES

The wind scattered moor in which the engine houses stand,
Testament to the once central industry of this Cornish land,
With bracken and heather and gorse the moor is thick,
And Madron chiselled into the hill side, granite not brick,
A black hooded mare stands in a fields, surrounded by its own shit,
Tractor loudly ploughing at Gulval, the whole rural bit,
The fields and lanes and roads, all travelling in the sun,
Photographs of onions coming and buttons being undone,
A layman's land, the statues in mid horizon, set square furniture,
The house where the rag dolls live, all naked vaginas in the future.