The wind whipped the sands.
The sky was grey and as we came to the café
It began to rain. We took tea under the cover.
The rain stopped, we found the footpath
That led to the open greenspace – the golf course,
The sandy paths, the long grass. The sun was starting
To burn through the tough clouds. We approached
Nearer to our destination. I could see the steeple.
One more path led us to the site of the 12th century chapel:
‘St Enodoc Church’. The black headstone of Betjeman
Stood proud and gleaming. We sat on the bench
Next to him and looked out on the perfect blue sky
And white wandering clouds, the long green fields of
Padstow opposite and the wide free sea. I looked, in the heat
And the breeze, for the oldest grave. One weathered and worn
Told of a man born in 1700, died aged 100 in 1800.