A letter to Cornwall

I wish to begin with forgiveness. Forgiveness for you and me both. For the long drives, the travel sickness and the fog. Very little of these things were either of our fault but we held each other responsible nonetheless. Me and my failure to drink water. You and your curves, sharp bends, and there only being one road in. And the Fog? I guess it was God. Or the sea, yearning to walk upon land with legs of rime and mist.

I write this in the midst of May in twenty degree heat. Perhaps, this is why it is easier to remember the fog as mysterious, as comforting, as the fronds of a boundless horizon. Hindsight: the beauty and wisdom of time.

The quiet of you is hard to reclaim since returning home. Countryside kept still within chapel walls because I had been waiting for you for so long. I have memories with you. All are kind but some hold remorse in their palms. I visited you with trepidation interlocked with the ivy of reminiscence. I cannot help but love you. For the blue, the clear water, the harbours and boats, the whitewashed cottages, and the smell of pastry. For your quiet power.

I wish I could see myself in you. I wish to be as pleasant, as settled and as welcoming. This is why I come to you. Even with regret and ache in my hands. Perhaps, it is a prayer I utter soundlessly. I come as a body to worship your small yet mighty majesty. I ask for you to keep me.

I know you cannot. The North and further North is calling me. It sounds like home more than you do. But I forgive you for this. I hope you can forgive me too because I will always be leaving you. But please, take this letter, this vow, this tentative I do, as an I love you.

Yours always, in passing.