The Cry of the Bishop Rock

This poem is dedicated to my mother who, more than anyone else and for better or worse, inspired me to ‘join those wandering ships’. The Bishop Rock is a lighthouse near the Gilstone Reef off the Isles of Scilly. The ‘haunting, distant call’ refers to the fog signals emitted by lighthouses to benefit passing mariners.

My mother led me among the granite tors
through grass of sheep’s fescue, wavy hair,
and common bent. Together, we savoured
the perfumed wild thyme. We marvelled
at tapestries of lichens, binding, holding fast
in colonies of pale sage, deep emerald, and gold.

And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock,
in a haunting, distant call of warning.

We played my childish game of counting ships
emerging from the morning mist. One by one,
they ploughed in spectral shapes as silhouettes
to fade from view, though not from my restless mind.
We dreamed of whence they came, the nature
of their burden, and whither they were bound.

And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock,
in a haunting, distant call of warning.

I loved to look upon those unbounded seas
and their palette of blues and greens. The mornings
draped in muted, dream-like pewter greys
and shades of blue that touched the shallows’ green
as shrouded sunlight played upon the tranquil sea.
How I longed to join those wandering ships.

And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock,
in a haunting, distant call of warning.

We breathed deep the summer’s Cornish air.
We filled our lungs with that subtle brine
which coated our lips to linger clean and fresh,
as hints of stranded seaweed on distant shores.
And in her eyes, I saw she knew those sights
and fragrant smells would one day draw me forth.

And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock,
in a haunting, distant call of warning.

In time I learned and plied our foreign trade.
I can still recall an early voyage, tramping,
homeward bound from the Gulf of Kutch;
deep-laden with generals, tea and talcum.
As mate, I stood my grey and gloomy watch
groping through the mists of early morning,

And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock,
in a haunting, distant call of warning.

Photo: Sketch of the Sun by Unsplash