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Chris Cameron

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Royal Duchy

The Royal Duchy waits to get the ‘Off’
from Paddington’s famous platform number 4:
she’ll take us down the Western line, that leads
to Cornwall - farthest point of British Rail.

We race in royal green by Reading’s Thames,
then nudge past Newbury’s racing, Berkshire Downs,
through Pewsey Vale, well-guarded - since the Danes’
defeat - by Bratton’s gleaming, chalk-white horse.

We read the book of landscape - Somerset,
whose place-names ring out still with confidence,
informing us the Normans came - and stayed: -
Hatch Beauchamp, Keinton Mandeville, Charlton Mackrell:

and then through Devon - Roman straightness thwarted here
by the dictates of Dartmoor’s giant, granite hand.
We dawdle through Dawlish’ devious tunnelled curves
and then race Devon’s rivers to the sea.

The lap-topped brigade are gone when Plymouth’s passed:
guitars and rucksacks, scuba gear now take
their place - young people seeking Cornwall’s past
and present: future too perhaps - who knows?

Let’s pause to read the Duchy’s Celtic names -
the Duchy’s not too grand to stop at each,
although there’s only room for three or so
green coaches to abut the platform at one time.

Liskeard, Bodmin, Lostwithiel, Par,
Chris Cameron. St Austell, Grampound, Truro, Hayle,
Kelso, Redruth, Camborne, St Erth, St Ives,
Penzance, The Holy Hill; the journey done.

 

poetrymagazines' note: his poem was first published in The Writer.

Page(s) 35

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