Never Quite



The air is never quite as fresh.

It whips past you like a suit on its way to work,

Tinted and tied with some iridescent poison.

But in Cornwall,

Your nostrils burn and you cry alongside the wind,

Convincing yourself the only way to breathe is to not.


The sound is never quite as quiet.

Some faraway fair hums alongside the streetlamp,

A cacophony of unnatural noises.

But in Cornwall,

The observer becomes the observed;

The bird’s song is filled with silence.


The day is never quite as light.

The sun scratches ceaselessly

At signs and structures and some sharp metal contraption.

But in Cornwall,

The image of pearly gates is outdone

By the penetrative glare that echoes in your eye.


The rain is never quite as cold.

It gently splats onto your arm at some mediocre temperature,

Heated by the undercurrent of exhaust fumes.

But in Cornwall,

Liquid ice falls from the sky,

Solderingitself to your skin.


I am never quite as free

As when I am lying on some green stuff,

Looking at some blue stuff.

Finding it hard to breathe,

Not hearing a thing,

Blinding myself

And getting soaked.

I love Cornwall.

I love my home.



(Alice is currently living in Plymouth …)