The Shaky Bridge is solid and firm
The ground beyond, lumps and bumps
A forgotten and vanished village
Cefnllys
Just a field and a church
Painted stones and ancient timbers
The heather rises, climbing the hill
We ascend like the purple scrub
The old castle, ghosts of Normans’ swords clashing, Glendower’s
Bloody retribution a shadow, a memory
borne on the breeze lifting the wheeling kite
Above.
Below, the girl waits, two dogs by her side, the river
Ithon swirling sluggish past
As it curls through the town, past the Roman
rubble, the Lover’s Leap, the Spa,
the dripdrip of chalybeate metallic aqua
and the heart of Cymru bleeds
For its lost children.
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