|
Talking
to
Lord
Newborough
I’d
perch
beside
your
gravestone
years
ago,
a
boy
who
thought
you
old
at
forty-three.
I
knew
you
loved
this
quiet
place,
like
me.
We’d
gaze
towards
Maentwrog
far
below,
kindred
spirits,
and
I’d
talk
to
you.
Sometimes
I
asked
what
it
was
like
to
die
-
were
you
afraid?
You
never
did
reply,
and
silence
rested
lightly
on
us
two.
These
days
the
past
is
nearer
so
I
came
to
our
remembered
refuge
on
the
hill,
expecting
change
yet
finding
little
there:
my
village
and
the
Moelwyns
look
the
same,
Saint
Michael’s
Church
commands
the
valley
still
-
but
you,
old
friend,
are
younger
than
you
were. |