christmas in cornwall

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the sound of the rain battering on the roof & dripping down the chimney – the ocean, right outside our window – bats swooping silently close to our heads poked out the window – the fury of the storms – staying indoors – going outside – trees growing sideways, persuaded that way by the prevailing winds – four packs of polaroid film – rocks that look like shipwrecks, and stained glass windows, and the skeletal remains of some great sea creature – the coastal path – champagne for breakfast – lunch at fifteen – the passing of a beloved friend – the comfortable quietness of being alone on the beach

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One Hundred voices
with one hundred
questions
all asking
the same thing:
Where are you
going,
lost as you seem?
They wonder.
I
am on my way
home,
is the only
truthful answer
I have.

–Tyler Knott Gregson– Typewriter Series #272