by ROSS JACKSON
Aided by the journal and the photos, my older self recalls
a tortuous journey voluntarily undergone
for days at a time
while being bowled by a gale along
a roller coaster
of cliff tops
within a groove well-worn by other fools’ footsteps
The Lizard Peninsula boxing my ears, freezing my nose
waves directly below coming in, one by one
off a very long run from foam crested ocean
showering rock sides, smacking Botero like boulders
that bloody big, South West blow never letting up
when I’d perched a while upon rain-carved stone
that rain, of the sort Merlin withstood
I’d oversight of deranged vistas all the way out
to the misted stage of the supramarine
trawlers, though pointed east, seesawing stern first
for the Scilly Isles
as curtains of mizzle chilled my head, swooping
at my tanned Aussie face
a camera close up of a Search and Rescue flag
ranting against its flagpole
a lopsided photo meant for those at home in Perth
testament to unrelenting wind doing my head in
all of those images of my stolid self
trudging alone in the Celtic North
are a kind of fraud, since in the meantime
they’ve become the source
of restorative nostalgia
– Cornish coast, England