The Journey by Bert Biscoe

Another poem from the pen and voice of one of Cornwall’s foremost poets

The Journey – (Truro – Redruth)

(For audio, click on title)

The Number Forty bus from Truro

To Redruth (via St Day) grinds a gear,

Pulls into traffic and away – a jackdaw

Departs the railway station’s ridge,

Making its crow-fly way relatively

From post-modernity’s modal interchange

To a redundant chimney pot

Which, since fires ceased to smoke

Its early Spring nest, has served

The nodding prancing scavenger

As ‘home’! ‘Thank the Jackdaw God

For small environmental mercies!’

The black monocoque bird muses

Whilst beating wings on stale air,

And spying rings he wishes to wear

Flaunting unbelievably on fingers

Of widows and brides, as, under

A Malabar privately-owned former

Council house, a guitar-toting lover

Woos the fiancé of his dreams –

Number Forty’s driver takes his bus

Into the tight left-hand roundabout,

Carving his space in the flow,

Pushing between a third-hand

Poor man’s Volvo and a BMW

Belonging to an anonymous CEO

Speeding out of Lys Kernow

With a planning consent in his bag!

We passengers brace against

The centrifugal force majeure

Of gravity, crepe soles seek purchase

In tungsten sparkling linoleum,

Rheumatic claws reach for chromium,

Lower spines push into unforgiving

Seats, untended bags dance seven veils

In mimicry of Apollo astronauts

In weightless stratospheric training –

The lights are against us, sensing

That I am taking the bus in substitution

For suspension of rail services

Whilst alchemists and orange-clad wizardy

Transform tried and tested semaphore

To smart but yet-not-known quantities

Of digital signalling – ‘O lead! Depart

My already swirling head and pour

From crucible to mould and make

This round-the-houses journey

An expedition of pure gold! O! May

The train run smoothly again and again!’

We lurch forwards and immediately halt –

Millie’s spirit on the Pelly – ‘Bleep! Bleep!’

Exhorts the green Spriggan – upstairs,

In their single-bed twin-floor

Urban alternative to the old golden

Manor under gorse on Halbullock Moor,

Mrs S rests unlit palms on her belly

And allows the press of dutiful blood

To recede from scarlet cheeks and brow –

Another roundabout or two, stomach

Beginning to issue MayDay signals

Of churning distress, and we take a turn

Past Trelawny Wing and derelict

Uther Pendragon’s Retinal Diabetical Unit

And out again, round the circular

Mound of sponsored planting and traffic

Controls and on, on, a cavalry charge

Into the dull-eyed artillery of Polstain Road –

A last-minute request stop! Then, ‘Hey!’

It’s only a straight commuter mile

To the calming commode of on-street

Parking performing as calming

And vegetarian evangelists smuggling

Beefsteak mediums in greaseproof bags

Out of Chacewater Bakery, with its bows

Of Jane Austen windows, its wholemeal

Load of cholesterol and carbon – such

A relief to sink one’s dahl and brown rice

Teeth into a lump of onion and beef!

Up Pothole Hill, into the wild lands

Behind the frowning exterior fields

And budding High Street hedges of May

And into the sanctuary and off-blown roof –

Response to Missioner by mining Methody

To ease the ambition of St Day – ‘Dear

Of her!’ as they d’say down Redruth, casting

A patronising eye towards that old clock,

And running along the protected path

Down to Kennall, Ponsanooth, Cosawes

And Perran-ar-Worthal to get away!

Up Redruth Fore Street the hour chimes

And Past exchanges glances with Future

And all is quiet up Trewirgie, and in the arms

Of St Euny, under the episcopal shroud

Of winter limes and raging oaks – sparrows

Dance on tight-fisted camellia buds!

Number Forty winds round and round,

Picking up here, putting down there,

Pausing for breath in the Square, dropping

Mrs Hair-Do-Under-Chiffon-Scarf

Just outside Carleen’s five-bar gate –

Head down, sleep resisting its invitation,

Blood reluctant to move around,

Tidal swells ringing bells in electrolyte

Peals under my hair – I’ve dropped

The St Agnes Museum Journal 2017

Into the front back-pack pocket –

‘The Cash Book of Tywarnhayle Farm‘

Must remain forever un-analysed –

‘What a mess we’ve made of windows!’

Terraces whose uniformity held

The architectural essence of beauty,

Betray the assaults of every double glazing

Cowboy installing his/her (pronouns

Random!) variation of UPVC fenestration –

Of levers, sashes, transformers, leaded

Diamond pastiche and blindly staring

Reflective layers of gormless glass –

The individual has stamped his aesthetic

Along the social media satellite Sky-dish

Streets of St Day and Carharrack –

And put-out the eyes of every house!

We turn sickeningly right, changing down

To assume the position and grind

Our Bedford Duple up Telegraph Hill –

By this time I cannot hide away

From the inner admission that I am feeling

Gravely, if not mortally, ill….I slump,

Head dipped into my chest; my mind

Is thinking pain and February is adding

An intellect of rain, embossing

The mud-streaked pain of hedgerows,

Ruts, holes and slowings for ‘Left-Right’

Foot down, engine-gunning, off again –

What heroes of industrial revolution

Set forth to excavate and blast the world

From this arterial lane? I’ve lost track

Of where we are – and then blessed Cardrew!

Turning up out of Mount Ambrose

And into Sandy Lane, and down, down,

Into the crimson and grey overweight arms

Of Redruth, past Pedndrea Stack

And Berryman’s girl paring her cuticles,

And Hendra holding revival back

Whilst surveyors condemn and shut

1826’s Chapel, and echoes of Wesley

Hang in ecumenical repose over Flowerpots –

Her Sanctuary a Short-Stay car park;

Her ashes in an urn of pay & display!

I never knew how my foot found

The sanctity of ground by Redruth Station,

Nor how I came to this chair

 At the junction of Falmouth and Portreath,

Where West and East End cross roads,

Nor how the potion of water

And undried Indian leaves revived

And re-delivered me into the stream

Of everyday – and as I waited to cross

Beside the plot of incinerated Hayman,

That Number Forty passed me by,

Its driver waving and chanting

And changing gear like a Transport

For Cornwall Shaman in drag! Up

Fore Street, the town clock struck Noon.

‘Never mind Dear’, said St Euny,

From underneath her trees. ‘You’ll feel

Better soon and then you’ll be here,

Lying in the red clay of Trewirgie

To take what may appear to be,

If you please, your eternal ease.’

Vyager gans Geryow (Bert Biscoe) lives in Truro. He is a poet and songwriter whose work draws on his interest in history, politics, social justice and language. He represents the people of Moresk & Trehaverne on Truro City Council, He served as an elected member of Cornwall Council for about 30 years, and as a member of the late Carrick District Council. The Ward was formerly called ‘Moresk’ – an unbroken link from civic administration to the hurried escape of Tristan and Iseult from the vengeful wrath of King Mark – writing a poem a day, Bert tries to invest Cornish values into the demands of modern life. His work is fun, and best read aloud – which he does whenever the opportunity arises, especially with fellow Cornish poet, Pol Hodge. ‘Living in Trurra’ he says. ‘Means that there is a constancy of running water beneath your feet – there are two clocks which ring the hours dissonantly and out of step – a good environment for poems to flourish in the cracks and shadows. Nowadays, the mullet listen attentively in the lee of the Old Bridge’.