A Week at Newlyn Art School

First, I noticed the people,
the fitness walkers, dog walkers,
the phone walkers.

A woman living from
carrier bags making coffee
on a beachside bench. The Scillonian
setting out, bright white
on its daily voyage.

Three days on,
I walked through a landscape
carved from stories. I wondered
about the colour of
long dead voices that walked with me
along the seashore. The radio crackle
of the lifeboat’s final message. The news
of the cable snapped at Bottalick mine.
I heard the songs of soldiers who
didn’t come home.

The last day came and
all I saw were layers and shapes.

The fishing fleet resting on a Sunday morning
became a tangle of pencil lines
sitting in bands of colour.