Down the Spine (A470)
Mid Winter 2010
Waters frozen, a moment
captured and stilled.
Icicles drape,
decorating roadside outcrops
from Maentwrog to Brecon.
Uncommon icy tableaux flash by
down this, the spine of Cymru.
Rivers paused in mid journey
silent now, the raging waters
tamed into frigid calm
banks of pale, frosted white.
The monolith sits silent now,
brooding in its lakeside lair
A deadly power redundant,
its sarcophagus decaying brick by brick.
Perilous tomb to potent energy now spent
but malignant poisons long forgotten
blow on the wind
Through the forest of Kings
where the mountain bike reigns,
dark foreboding conifers
kindle primitive fears
Hidden deep in its heart
with teeth bare and bloody
the beasts of the wild wood
ravage this land.
In Llanelltyd
no fear they, the ghosts
of Cistercian monks
fishing the Mawddwch
by Cymer's ruins,
memorial to dissolution
and desolation reaped
Bypass Dolgellau to Cross Foxes
once cheerless in near dereliction,
car park now packed with Sunday lunchers
and weekend walkers.
Above, Cadair Idris looms.
Here Gwyn ap Nudd hunts on slopes,
where poets & madmen reborn
cry to scuttling clouds
denouncing the hounds
that capture souls snared
in purgatory’s hell below
The pass of the cold door plunges,
descending, as skywards,
fast jets zip through the azure,
keeping the peace with roaring clamour.
A lay-by brim full of detritus
discarded by the careless.
Crisp packets and half eaten broccoli stalks,
a bizarre picnic in this,
the strangest of lands
Mountains behind, mid-lands now,
rolling hills scattered
with white monuments to the wind.
Blades thrumming in midwinter breezes
witness the death throes
of the old power to the north.
Near silent new sentinels,
advancing, in this,
the newest of ages
Through Carno where Laura’s ghost
shimmers in floral sprigged gowns,
mourning the past
where workers loyally toiled
on paisley and smock and bodice and lace
King of the Black Gold
stands resolute
guards his bridge in Llandinam
and ponders on plans for Barry
to conquer the world.
God skimming church spirals
replace demure, squat chapel roofs.
Biblical Beulah found
in the land of the bards
The land’s own cathedrals,
coral tinged trees encircle
Sanctuaries to sun and life
and all that we are
Rhayader kites, catch
late afternoon thermals
forked tails steer
in downward spirals
mugging murderous carrion
for prey on the wing.
Skimming and snatching
in the failing twilight
A fight for survival
a flight for their life.
‘The wanderer thro the woods’
glimpsed through ancient oak
winds it’s ponderous passage
to the Severn and beyond.
the River of Men
its spirit returning
replenishing all
that lies in its wake.
Royal Welsh empty now,
echoes
to the sound of musical cries
from bucolic farmers
holding proud Welsh blacks
and wild prancing Cobs
Rosettes blossom
proudly splashed on
gleaming hides
glinting in the late evening sun
push back the sea of Gogleddwr
wreaking havoc
from their northern lands
Wild moors made warm,
by soft winter sun
Yellow ochre of prairie grassland
with purple haze of spicy heather
Horizons punctuated with blocks
of conifer
where in the far distance the beacons
glow
Army dreamers practise in these
tranquil lands
Shoot at insurgents cloaked in
coats of fleece
visualise choking desert dust
and returning coffins draped in
red, white and blue.
Journeys end in Brecon streets
Here Norman barons held sway
keeping the wild Welsh at bay
Where streets now sing to the tunes of
Dizzy, Charlie, Miles and Duke
Late summer ragtime
in shades of winter blues
Now as daylight fades, we return.
Welcome to My World 3
* I wrote this poem after a wonderful journey in the Winter 2010 down to Brecon to deliver paintings to a gallery. The Landrover coped with the icy conditions and I began to appreciate this wonderful land that I now live in!
