Into Cornwall I climb seeking comfort from winds
Among lower levels of that lofty moor Bodmin;
Through fields richly-flanked by leaves of fair green
I come up to Blisland by blowing moor’s edge.
In that soft church I sit to regain of my senses
With its vault above me which arches twice vast
And shouts of Agincourt when its arcs were stretched
On shield-bearing angels, their wings wafting high
And sailing in joy over scenes from the centuries.
Rested, I rise onto Gringolet’s saddle
Who carries me slow up ascents to the moor
And there in the blowing wind blasting my body
And sharp-shafting showers that strike to the soul
I see that square building which bold sits in bog-land;
King Arthur’s Hall it is known in Kernow.
Yet no knight knows that place, not to my knowing,
The years have long passed that parsed of its purpose
And my uncle Arthur never nursed in that place
Ideas of adventure to alter his aims
For the season, or Christmas, or sweet holidays.
It is but a pound to pen but some sheep or maybe a place to bury
Surrounded by gorse and granite stones
That Hall it must be said
Just now sits square in moors alone,
Its story long unread.