The Post Office at Tintagel

Let us not pretend anything is straight.
The roof, the doors, the windows
are all off, not quite in kilter,
a victim of a world that does not stay still,
that moves in the night,
just enough to send it all awry
picturesque, but a bit risky for
you cannot be sure how long it can last
twisted and battered by the winds of the Irish Sea.

It is perhaps, the most beautiful building in town,
its weakness part of the appeal,
stunningly imperfect as those you love,
as you yourself,
the stout beams and foundation tested
and tested against storms
and the more subtle ravages of time,
yet it stands,
charmingly defiant,
a curiosity in a world of flash mobs
and perfunctory fame.

About this poem

The building in the picture is the post office at Tintagel, England. It’s actually more twisted looking in person than in pictures. Built in the 14th century (1300s), it is a wonderful, atmospheric survivor.

Some days I feel like that building, minus the charm.

Tom