Boscastle


A winch lifts a woman
on an orange thread
from her chimney

and this slate-bed
loaded with staples
plays soundlessly.

There is an undercurrent
of the canny, be it
the boatswain's trick

of fixing sole to towpath,
each edifice's new lick.
At Beeny, the painting

of the dray, its hinges
that bleed with iron,
the high cliff.

Enough, three miles on
to be on the road
to the coastal path.