A slightly spooky feeling seeps through me when I stand here on a dank day like this in Cornwall. Where history seems to thickly hang, like the sentinel castle perched on that misted, distant hill. Above the brick silent viaduct that no longer echoes with the rippling rumble of bygone trains.
It could be the opening breath of a ghost story. With a ship that’s forgotten how to sail. Its once safe harbour turned in recent tides to evoke a more foreboding tale.
It’s so very quiet. The folk round here long since hidden behind the windows and locked down doors of sealed shut days. They lie in wait, like us all, in hope to dispel the real apparition that haunts our present time. The ghoul that needs no naming now.
Yet, here, still strong, the slipway stands in weathered lasting poise. Its hallowed hail to windward breath is braced to launch these lives and ships again. When this dank tale of ghostly time doth soon make history of now.
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