Unchartered, Kenwyn
The woods by my house don’t have a name.
I was map-gazing at 4am when I learnt this.
By 5, I’m still slightly angry – or if not angry, then
Bemused
How could somewhere so important be so
easily dismissed
to warrant not even a patch of green
on a cartographer’s screen
now etched permanently, ironically, into ‘the real’
by smartphone scribblings
Because that place is
everything;
The root from where my half-formed self
half formed itself
through years of afternoon wanderings
Spring, summer, autumn – break
Something happened,
between the dew of March
and the July heat
and the September mulch
of modest, glorious trees.
I fought through leaves, and brambles
cleared my lungs by the Kenwyn stream
marching ever upwards to defeat
but starting here, proudly,
Rightly.
This is where I come to write, to lie, to listen
to perch, and burrow
away from dog-walkers, ramblers, fellow wanderers
To them, this place is theirs.
To me, it is mine –
Simple.
Sublime.
I grew here.
And I have loved here, too.
Brought friends
to see what I have seen –
the place in my dreams.
I regretted it, endlessly
You shouldn’t let others see your dreams
or even know that they can;
like when I saw that girl by the tree –
– oh, the ignominy –
It must have been the same for her
But I have forgotten all that now,
and by morning,
I’m clearer – accepting, even –
of the anonymity,
the casual, relentless being
of this stretch of land,
so beautifully ignored
Because in my head,
it is still wild, undiscovered
A secret garden
where I can look over my kingdom –
amid the yellow, coconut gorse
and the dew,
and the hills of this valley –
I too become uncharted,
Embedded.
And now, it pleases me
that somewhere so important
can go so unseen
to warrant not even a patch of green
on a cartographer’s screen
How many more hidden, personal wonders
must there be?
As close as this,
as deep,
as needed?
It is testament to our world,
that something so incredible
is so effacingly normal –
wonder in ubiquity
God’s divine, humble scribblings
The woods by my house don’t have a name.
Or, the name is silence:
it would die if you said it.
Because it is inseparable –
through the seasons, it remains.
An unrequiting love.
And despite all this, despite everything:
I still believe
I am the only one who knows about it.