Drive the narrower roads of Cornwall
and pass through its green corridor. The buried
heads of crosses preach to the deaf
ears of the corn. The carved, converted, stolen
stones have holes drilled through their sides,
are set to work as gateposts in the fields.
Their rough-hewn cousins keep their circle on the moor.
The farmer shakes his head to the rector at the door.
If you've any comment on these poems, Gregory Leadbetter would be pleased to hear from you.