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  • Hugh Loxdale

Wales


Wales ‑ to where

I now return each year.


A yearning, a persistent desire

That never fails

To call me back.


Land of my grandmother and her kin.


Land too, of proud mountains,

Valleys, rivers, pervasive castles…

And bleak forests…


Wherein prowl the

Ghosts of wolves, bears

And Princes

Long since slain.


Only the cry of an owl

Soon to kill;

Red kites that

Make even that consummate skill

A graceful art,

And the rarely absent

Wind and rain

Rise above

The music of cold, crystal waters…


These drawn from icy, ancient peaks

To tumble across shales

And shattered slate

Or granite


Where flecks of the purest gold,

Beloved by those that behold

But do not care,

Glisten like stars

Lost in the enormity

Of untidy Space…


And yet, beyond these

Urgent happy thoughts

Of Wales,

And the open window,

Speaks all that is left…

The real stars,

A thousand billion of them,

Alight still as the myths and legends

Of that mystic, magic place.

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