See the VIDEO: A Bygone Day – a poem by Roger Hosking
about the history of the Cornish fishing village of Porthleven, with old photographs
| Porthleven, my home by Nigel Orchard (Verse 1) In a little fishing place, by the sea so wide, There’s a gem called Porthleven, where dreams reside. And nestled nearby, where the land meets the shore, Is the place where i was born, forever adored. (Chorus) Oh, Porthleven, where the waves dance and play, A haven for fishermen, where they find their way. With each rising tide, a story to behold, Porthleven, a place of tales, forever untold. (Verse 2) As the sun sets on the horizon, painting the sky, Porthleven’s beauty shimmers, catching every eye. And in my birthplace’s embrace, you found your roots, A connection to the sea, where adventure takes its shoots. (Chorus) Oh, Porthleven, where the waves dance and play, A haven for fishermen, where they find their way. With each rising tide, a story to behold, Porthleven, a place of tales, forever untold. In the early morning mist, the fishermen arise, With hopeful hearts and steady hands, they set their eyes. And in that same spirit, you began your journey, From your birthplace to the world, with dreams that are worthy. (Chorus) Oh, Porthleven, where the waves dance and play, A haven for fishermen, where they find their way. With each rising tide, a story to behold, Porthleven, a place of tales, forever untold. (Verse 3) The village comes alive, with the catch of the day, The aroma of fresh air and Pastys drifting along the bay. And just like Porthleven, your birthplace holds a charm, A special place in your heart, where memories disarm. (Chorus) Oh, Porthleven, where the waves dance and play, A haven for fishermen, where they find their way. With each rising tide, a story to behold, Porthleven, a place of tales, forever untold. So in this little fishing place, where dreams are born, Porthleven was my birthplace, forever adorn. With their tranquil beauty and tales of the sea, A part of me , a place where i’ll always be. |
Poem – In My Dreams
The place in my dreams
is in black and white
and soft-focus,
freeze-framed
before the rain falls.
in a patterned dress,
with belt embracing waist,
and flowered net-spread gathers sailing to mid-calf,
a woman strides beside the harbour
chin up-tilted,
her joyous outstretched arms
propel a low-slung pushchair,
the child unseen below
no glimpse of girdle restraining
stockings suspended
twin-tub to be wheeled from the outhouse
eel-like tubes connected to a dripping tap
raw-fry tea to be cooked
gritty blue-black coal to be fetched
ashy grates to be cleaned
and salt-soaked socks to be darned.
Porthleven Museum 