Beacon

82. 11 September 2021

Today I walked up to the Beacon above Falmouth,

The highest point in the town,

And looked down on Falmouth Bay,

I walked around the playground,

Came carefully down the steep muddy path

Behind the hairdressers.

And I thought of when there were no houses,

Just woods and fields and scrawny cows,

And the watchmen tramped up the hill in the dark,

In 1588, looking out for Spaniards in the Bay.

A shock!

A new light on the horizon to the south west;

The first doubts: is it really the beacon for the Armada?

A plume of fire going up from the Lizard?

The fear that they might be wrong.

The fear that they might be right.

The argument: was it Mars rising? No. A wildfire? No.

The honour of lighting the Beacon going to the oldest man.

The flames leaping from hill to hill all the way to London.

***

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