the day they tried to drown a nation

Telling stories in language of breath

In the land of thrice told tales
A fourth always comes forth -
Fifth is rooted in
Flesh Stone Tree Flower.
It’s a story which
Need not be told.

In the midst of life we are in dearth…..

Poems submerge the space
Where village life once decanted, as
Spring water bursts from brook.
Stomachs filled with granite nights
Slate lips to slake a thirsting labour;
Ploughed furrows cleaved fields
Over & o’er, comfort lay in ritual seeds
Until ghostly deeds of capitalists
Slaughtered the harvest heart.
The sky died under
     the breath
                           they breathe.

At least there were Liverpool lights
To guide families from
Welsh womb to their room
And doors to other rooms.
They curated a ship of souvenirs
Anchored to Capel Celyn chapel
Selling bricks & hymn sheets
To the most lowest of bidders.

How to inscribe ‘death’
On an ordnance survey map?

Ridges & ribs of the bone work
Lace language through throaty Mabinogion.
Always thus,
Voiceprint in the clay of history.


An elderly widow dreamt of her husband
Returned from smoky warfare.
Green uniform soaked
From collar to ankle
So wet  - green was almost black.

Last Rites – electrification of a soul

Gored of honour
Branched bayonet
Soliloquy of hills
Silenced by trucks,
Orphan birds skirted
New ordered edges.

In clandestine scuffle
Of water and iron,
The cemetery gates
Were to never swing again.
Bleached skeletons, as
Beached whales, alone
Trying to find their way home.

No nurse to dismantle
Pumps pipes irrigation tubes
Just thump of steel
Big fucking thumping -
Thrusting water into
Avarice arms of reservoir,
Curdled grey slabs & foetal rubble
To cuddle in pastures for divers.

No telegram from the Queen
Merely stamped face on
Last love letter
To leave the village.

Summer stings skin
Gulps water to the bone.
As if a monochrome film
Was projected as a picture postcard.
Trywern valley bought us home
Along dusty yesterday paths.

Yma o Hyd / We’re still here.