Llangollen Wales

The old track crunched its way to Llangollen,  
through fields and sheep and rain    
racing with the road Telford laid    
canal, boats, ducks and motor cars    
all going west this morning.    
     
Do you know the place      
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.    
Parish church and cassocked crow,    
en-caustic tiles, tunes in Welsh and English    
bilingual prayers on Sunday morning.    
   
Steam, stopping at the bridge    
once going on to England    
built over now,(hotels and B&B.)  
coaches, pensioners, tea and cakes.    
Beside the hurrying  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    
shining in  winter sun.    
Signal boxes, 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  quiet, March too early, cold and grey,    
walk the empty streets; dream July and sun,    
come again  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  railway tracks and gravel    
going east and home.