the lonely figure of the cornish moors

by Annabelle Fuller

I liked to go out
Wandering, among bluish skies of heaven
Where there was no death.

Now, as I contemplate the Cornish moors and tuck behind my ear a band of rebel hair, I see the Devil’s black clouds cross the skies and linger. I wish that I could say I’d met a figure, a lonely figure, walking in the waving grass, but no silhouettes approach me. I’ve been walking for a while; now I settle.

Heathen heather’s overrun this place most pleasantly. Throw yourself down, bask in the sun’s weak rays in the scrub (for there are no well-trodden walkways here). Watch the clouds peripherally, discussing formation tactics. I still hope to meet a

lonely figure here,
wandering, among darkening skies of black
searching for something.

He doesn’t come yet. But the storm does, crowding all half-heaven, blustering, blowing the skinny reeds every which way. The sky, it starts to cry, first tiny tears on my cheek, then full-blown bawling.

the lonely figure
comes to sit beside me and give me comfort
in the autumn rain

i was waiting for him; now he’s come to take me from this earth amid the cornish rainstorms. glance to heaven, squint (the sun peeks out behind the smoky clouds), hold a hand up to your eyes, feel the rain upon your skin, let it drench your hair, as you flounder, drowning, happy, with the one you want.

‘ALL THE STORIES OF THIS MOOR STOP. ALL THE LONELY HOURS SPENT HERE STOP. ALL THE WANDERERS AND QUIET MEN STOP. WALKERS STOP. DREAMERS STOP. SOMEDAY THEY COME HERE STOP. THEY ALL STOP STOP. STOP AND THINK STOP. STOP JUST TO STOP STOP.’

reads my telegram
this moor, it is my home and always will be
I am happy here.