Complete Poem: The Poet Speaks

When the birds come in

from the skies,

the jackdaws and the choughs,

I shall not be pecked as they noisily caw,

I shall not be deterred as they gather.

The sleeping coriander is a giant,

whatever the weather,

and it has not made mud pies

in a dented tin.

 

My sin is absolved,

as you wade the river—

tramp above the Fal,

where its mouth, a sliver,

castle of St Mawes,

brusque and steady grey,

bastions are gun-round,

protection from the crowns,

from invasion stayed.

 

My deep fears are drowned

in the heart of raven,

landing on Goss Moor

circling Penhale,

my vermouth is downed.

Whatever religion,

you are, be then last,

in the mouth of bass,

rambling down the river.

 

I shall ever clean,

if you keep me here,

in your pocket’s seams,

wandering, a deer

on her grasses, munching,

on the heather moor,

climbing up a hill,

swallowing my fill,

daylight is my chore.

 

If you keep me warm,

I shall not be sorrow;

children are a swarm,

blessing on the morrow,

tread the barley farm,

let them needing, trample,

every weed, enemy,

every grain, a seed,

let them hungry, sample.

 

My children will be love,

if you keep them constant,

they roost like collared doves,

rise above the barns,

in their black half-collars.

Song will, lustrous, twill,

from the song thrush’s beak—

wearing Cornwall’s tweed;

make the coal tit thrill.

 

My winter visitors

are the haughty bramblings,

snow is on my branches,

dance on seed like waxwings,

be the breadth of visions.

Part from my last hope,

landscape of my castle,

scrubbed clean with my castile,

do not let me mope.

 

Wrangling, my daughter,

spread the arid seed,

under holly’s tears,

pluck from holly’s bleed,

shellacked deadly laughter.

Say the birds fly in,

though the land be winter,

river—crusty, bitter—

as though the castle sin.

 

Convent in the moonlight,

child of the epiphany,

chanting runes so blithe,

weary white so holy,

Jesus’ sacred wife.

Will my daughter scar

if I use a paring knife,

talking ripened tripe,

will the cow’s cream sour?

 

Grow industrious,

in the mainstream’s garden,

reap the pealing harvest,

be the river’s warden,

on the summer barest. 

Let me brush your hair,

as it grows like barley,

women now will parley,

if your dress be pale.

 

Sprinkle down your rain,

wallowing the tire ruts,

here, the water’s main,

where the Cornwall cliffs jut,

here the sunset stains.

Falling to horizon’s hold,

day will be far gone next,

played like forlorn weed beds

of the marigold.

 

Clearly through the clouds,

I was minstrel greying;

sit here, growing old,

with my song ears straying,

minor Leopold.

Sit here with my sons

though they now be farmers,

arable oat straw,

they throw down the mulch.

 

Burn my field fires gladly,

roast my tiny oat berry,

soak my beaded barley,

rest here in my oar locks, sadly—

rowboat, I was steering;

keep your hands inside,

on this windy day’s leer,

drinking aged ginger beer,

I was once a bride.

 

Brittle meal, but kind,

I would cook a day’s wages,

serve the cheese in rind,

when the nighttime rages,

gather ’round the scythe.

With basic loyalty,

my girl has never frowned,

her fields are barley-brown,

we’ll have a cup of tea.

 

When the birds come in,

then the barley, pearl,

grow my coriander,

you will be my girl,

never mind the ravens:

resting in the branches—

through the waters whorl—

they will not speak poor,

they will tell your legend.

Emily Isaacson