Category: Poetry
Morwenstow Church by Ruth Tremayne Harry with photos by Terry Harry
There’s a Church in northern CornwallWhere an eccentric used to roamHe was the vicar and a poetMorwenstow Church became his home Reverend Hawker was this
GOLITHA FALLS by Ruth Tremayne Harry with photos by Terry Harry
An autumn walk to cherishThe colours inspire aweThe River Fowey is flowingLike you’ve never seen before Draynes Wood is the beginningAs the paths wind through
A Village Childhood in Quintrell Downs by Ruth Tremayne Harry
Surfboards and sunsetsAnd pasties for lunchWith mackerel and ice creamAnd flowers by the bunch The hedges were highAnd morals to matchRoosters and chickensWith eggs that
“She Iddn Like We Poor Sawl” by Maid Lowenna (The Late Wonderful Joy Stevenson)
Nex ta we av just bin sawld New parties av moved in, They’m sumwhere frum uplong A pia-ace they da call Kings Lynn. They’m daicunt
Harry Glasson – The great songwriter who wrote “Cornwall My Home”
What a privilege it was for us to meet up with the legend Harry Glasson and his lovely wife Ann in their delightful garden on
Forgotten Heroes by E.M. Gardner with a drawing by Robbie
Cornwall is a special land, its men a special breed,By granite rocks and mighty seas their strength has been decreed,No fear will make them bow
The Old Plough – Shortlanesend with a poem by Ruth Harry & Photos by Terry Harry
THE OLD PLOUGH It’s the local village pubAnd is the heart of ShortlanesendWhere Mark and Ian welcome youOn that you can depend Besides the drinks
ST. PIRAN by Ruth Tremayne Harry
A Saint who came from IrelandAnd turned up on Cornish shoresHis name of course is PiranHis legend still endures He landed with a millstonePerhaps from
A CORNISH ROWER by Ruth Tremayne Harry
There’s a statue by the riverA woman sitting on a benchShe is gazing at the waterWith a rower’s steel intent Ann Glanville is this rowerShe
FROM AN EXILE by Les Rendell
Where do I live?The question begs an answer in perplexity,For if my body works and bides in EnglandThe heart that pumps the bloodstream giving breathCan
BYGONE DAYS by Les Rendell
Life wanders on, year in, year out, apaceAs melancholy haunts the backward gaze;But memory holds alive those years of graceOf Cornish childhood, golden bygone days.