Cornwall Art Gallery

 

I wonder how we met so placidly

in St Ives—

beside an expanse of sea,

at Penwith Gallery

in a maze of art,

with me ruminating on Victoriana ruins

and women poets,

standing in a light at the front of the room—

with a round face like a moon

that never goes out—

the audience blinking at archetypes:

rugged cliff tops to estuary,

Gannets, Manx shearwaters, Kittiwakes

with their small yellow bills

flying from their wild nests,

grazing the salt,

sparking the stars to brilliance,

wine along the Southwest Coast Path,

precocity courting decadence,

and you withholding judgment

on me seizing the day.

Emily Isaacson