Away With Worry: The Saint And The Sinners
Angela Black’s poem reflects upon different attitudes to Tintagel.
He came from the sea, the saint,
seer of the light, in a little boat,
beached on the shingle in the cove and
gratefully, for a rock, remote and strong
gave thanks
for long, bereft of friends, had he stirred
the ice-cold sea.
They come from the sea, the rout,
seers of the site,
On a pleasure trip.
Scrum up the shingle in the cove and
friskily. do leap and skip in a ring,
pretty birds do sing,
for long, pushed and shoved, have they
pleasured, fare 30p
Climbed the crag to the plateau, on the
stiff turf knelt.
“It is well
God bless this turf, these stones.’’
And tenderly, a little cell he made, and a
well, and prayed
with the gulls and praised with the waves
and wind of the sea.
They scrum up the path to the chapel his
hands have built.
“My nylons – hell!’’
“God damn these stones. Suffering saints,
it’s ye wishing well.’’
Giggle-guffaw-wriggle
and shriek with the gulls, howl with the
winds of the sea.
He laboured there, the saint, and many
souls, among the folk,
were won for God and, in his monastery, he
took his yoke
“For meek of heart
seek
And they found rest who laboured by the sea.
They labour down again in shuffles and
shoals
Their cartooned gods
discarded, the bottle smashed
ceremoniously
“Them’s the bods what brought religion.’’
“Who’d have thought...’’
And all for 30p.
See yer screwball.
