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On Snowdonia, We Sat Down and Wept

This is the land
Dethroned Tolkein’s imagination
From soulless suburban burden.

This is the land
Dead poets track the railed rosaries
Of quarrymen’s blunted prayers.

Primitive aching jaw, unbraced steel,
Mouths two thousand years of history,
Mother tongue sucks fossils
Then spits them out.


Last snow of spring tiles the light,
Clay roofs once branched sky walls
As airborne feathers fear the fall.  
In pendwmpian, we learn to fly.

Birthplace of phantoms, broken spectres,
Something beautifully ragged was born.
Tourists trade their dreams in lustrous lakes,  
The roads are full of cars.

This is the land
Cigfran claws tear the morning mist
Dredges dead Celtic Gods from Irish Sea.

This is the land
Built on Hymns and Arias
Prostitutes, crime and smack.


Pendwmpian = Nodding Off
Cigfran = Raven
Written by Strangeways_Rob
Published
Author's Note
ERULGCT 163. There's a well-known story about Cadair Idris, a mountain in southern Snowdonia: if you sleep one night on its summit, it's said you'll wake either a bard or a madman. Slept there once and here is the madman I became.....
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