Mousehole, 1860…
(George Wolfe’s painting)
It is the insignificance of St Clement’s Island,
Huddling, clinging inshore, ailing
Within an incoming tide and failing
To impress, in awe of St Michael’s Mount beyond…
Cramped, crooked cottages camp above the ragged shore,
Whilst on what might now be Raginnis Hill,
Shabby dwellings shove smoke from stacks
Over an industrious village, exposed and raw…
Clustered homes lie snug beneath green clad cliffs
And an intriguing church tower peeps through boughs
To remind its congregation of God’s grace and proffered vows…
Yet emotive is the granite harbour arm of a small quay,
Corralling, hugging the luggers’ bobbing bows
And dun sails, alongside fishermen’s skiffs.
Gathered, mothered, the hardy vessels hide
From Mousehole’s cold, unpredictable tide…
Above, the serene and peaceful Mount’s Bay sky,
Beaming beauty upon a reflective sea of lusty azure,
Seems acutely at odds with the rustic, industrial appeal
Of the village, its detritus and its community’s allure…
Pete Ray…
George Wolfe’s 1860 paining of Mousehole, now in the Penlee Gallery, Penzance…
The poem is just a personal view of what I see in the
painting…
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