The Last Full Day in Launceston

0632: My arm sticks awkwardly out of the bedroom window, clutching my sound recorder. The tawny owl is calling and I want a record of it. I haven’t heard it in days.

0817: Breakfast in the sunroom. In the garden snowdrops are fading. I pick one to press in my notebook.

Sometime around midday: Walking along the ridge beyond town. Dartmoor in the distance is the clearest I’ve seen it during my stay. Thank you, spring. I hear the first raven cronk of the year and a buzzard circles overhead.

Later: While collecting ramsons for dinner, I call mum. “I’m sad to leave”.

Later still: Stood unsteady on the mud, I wash my hands in the river. It’s cool, and I record the babbling on my phone.

1320: Peppermint tea, sat on the roadside windowsill of Cyprus Well. I say hello to a goldfinch couple. They don’t stay for long.

1741: I stroke the aged wood of Causley’s desk and study the blemishes. Books are placed back on the shelves and the desk is cleared. I say goodbye to the keys of the typewriter, then to the piano.

1036: “Goodnight Charles.” His portrait keeps watch outside the bedroom door.

I pack away these little fragments. Bird calls are placed in my pocket. The plants are pressed or eaten. River water tucked into my memory and favourite stanzas scribbled down on paper. From time to time, I’ll take them out. Look at them, turn them over. Each adds up to form a whole; a museum of my own making from my time at Cyprus Well.