Jane Blanchard

                11-12 October 2018

Rain pounds so hard against the window that
we wonder how the glass can stay intact.
Sleep—needed, called for—comes in snatches at
the hotel holding court above a tract
of ruins thought to stand upon the site
where Arthur was conceived. As if a soul
now knows what took place way back then: such might
have happened is enough. Truth must be whole;
myth can be partial, pieced together from
the bits and even relics of the past.
Cornwall has seen its share of tempests, some
unnatural—this will not be the last,
yet it goes on and on long after dawn,
when we resume our tour and soon are gone.