PADSTOW 

Peter Woodgate 

As masses weave their way

through narrow streets

what do they think?

as face to face with history they meet.

Is it just to walk the dogs

that brings them here?

or to appreciate the architecture?

No, nor any other pastime, I fear.

It appears before Rick Stein arrived

with fancy menus,

it was just a quiet place,

local residents,

living hand-to-mouth,

a little fishing boat

to catch the seafood that,

kept them afloat,

and, paid the rent.

Good old Rick,

he saved their lives,

his food, it’s said,

could raise the dead

and many shops then sprang to life,

selling, chalk and tiles and clay

and anything that came their way.

as customers flocked

across thresholds of excitement.

It’s progress, so they say,

the modern world, this is the way.

But I am sad, for Cornwall’s magic

fades rapidly within the queues

of traffic, as it quickly spews

it’s frustration through our heads

and on our brows, beads form

to trickle down to meet our chin,

anxiety it will begin

and all this takes away the bliss,

euphoria, a gentle kiss,

and other wonders that I miss.   

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate