Llangollen Wales

 
The old track crunched its way to Llangollen,  
through fields and sheep and rain  
racing with the road that Telford laid  
canal, boats, ducks and motor cars  
all going west this morning.
 
Do you know the place    
its Eisteddfod, choirs,  
and dancing in the street?  
Red dragons flying high, tall hats  
and pretty women,Celts, Saxons, Vikings  
foot-steps, strange tunes from the Urals,  
sopranos heavy in their blouses.  
The parish church, cassocked crow,  
en-caustic tiles, tunes in Welsh and English  
bilingual prayers on Sundays.
 
Steam, stopping at the bridge  
once going on to England  
built over now, hotels B&B.  
coach park, pensioners, tea and cakes.  
There beside the hurry of the Dee,  
struggling through sleeping whales of rock  
riven from Snowdon's slopes seventy miles away
The station falling to the river  
clinging to the bank,black slate tiles,
from Worlds End and the Panorama  
which shine in the winter sun.
 
Signal box, children on the foot plate  
engine driver, dirty in his pride.  
Clashing camera shutters, plastic windmills  
ice cream queues and candy-floss  
babel voices, friends to meet again next year.
 
But today all quiet, March too early, cold and grey,  
walk the empty streets dream July and sun,  
come again to join the merriment and song.  
For now sipping coffee  and smiling talk,  
warm yourself before you lean the bridge  
to watch the froth and roar.
  
Shiver, pull on gloves and scarf  
find again the railway track and gravel  
now going east and home.