A Talkative Saint who lived in a hedge

He was caught up in what he did
and he couldn’t do enough of it
and he did it all the time.

He would talk about it to anyone
even if they
told him they couldn’t understand a word of it
and didn’t want to listen
and he wouldn’t stop.
He would run after you
to tell you
that the thing he told you yesterday
although not incorrect
was not what he meant at the time.

Walking from Penzance to Newlyn,
to buy a fish or two,
it would be quicker
some people said
to go by Lamorna,
avoiding him in his place in the hedge.

He was not St. Cuby.
He was not St. Caradoc.
And he was not St. Erth.

Where he came from
some say he paddled over from Ireland
in a wooden washtub
with the purpose of
getting away from himself.
But he would tell you
even if that was a true story
it was about someone else.

People missed him when he was gone.
They would now and then stop
by his place in the hedge
and wait for  a while,
as if they expected something,
even  fairly sensible people.



Daniel Richardson was born in April 1941 in Chicago, and grew up in Carmel, California during a time in which there seemed to be great optimism about the future in general and the future of the U.S.A. in particular.   He studied mathematical logic at Bristol, and is currently working as a mathematical consultant.  Stairwell Books (www.stairwellbooks.co.uk) have published Rhinocerous, a book of his short stories.