Joanna Biggar's Blog

As world leaders, including President Biden, finished their G-7 meeting in Cornwall yesterday, I was reminded of another leave-taking from the same place. In the unseasonably warm October of 2014, Wanderland Writers left their residences and the gardens and grounds of Tregenna Castle after a wonderful workshop in Cornwall. I was the last to leave St. Ives and made one return trip to the castle, and felt acutely the magic of that “Riviera” of England, with its palm trees and surfers, as well as the mystery and grit of that land of ancient standing stones. I also felt the melancholy of leave-taking when perhaps one’s business is unfinished and wrote this poem. I wonder if those world leaders experienced any of the same emotions.

                                        Last Climb Up Tregenna Hill

                                      Out of synch, out of season, summer sun

                                          on the summer sea. October and I am

                                          running up

                                          for one forgotten thing

                                          I still cannot remember.

                                          Was it my words?

                                          Fern paths, palm trees, golf grass green

                                          as winter in a greedy land,

                                          I pause, wanting breath,

                                          wanting what I have come

                                          for up this stony path. 

                                          But my companions are not here.

                                          Gone as ghosts, the writers,

                                          the breeze wiped clean of their

                                          laughter, their stories, their laments.

                                          Gone Linda beneath the faded lamplight

                                          In the cottage of the weeping stone.

                                          Gone myself.

                                          Inside the stone-walled castle

                                          wedding revelers dance,

                                          but I am not invited.

                                          Now a stranger here,

                                          I look only for what is lost.

                                          The wind strikes noon;

                                          my blood turns.

                                          Alone

                                         in this moment

                                         I freeze in the sun

                                         and fear

                                         that,

                                         on the great mossy green,

                                         without

                                         what I have come for,

                                          I will become

                                          the last stone standing.

                                              –Joanna Biggar–

                          From: Wandering in Cornwall: Mystery, Mirth and Transformation in the Land of Ancient Celts, Wanderland Writers, Oakland, CA, 2015;  image by hospitality interiors