HARLECH CASTLE

stones speak in lost tongues
to sheep grazing by the wall
clouds gather laughing

voices of dead kings
echo off cloud shrouded hills
she whispers in dreams

a November wind
cuts deeply across the keep
distant hills crying

slash of claymore
glinting in the morning sun
bird with wings unfolded

moss encrusted stones
remember long past ages
sun smiles knowingly

distant bay waters
stare lovingly at the stones
winter wind grasps me

echoes of the pipes
reverberate in mourning
village awakens

a lone sailboat
floats aimlessly in the bay
dead kings laugh aloud

winter wind whispers
fingers touching ancient stones
laughter of a gull

her smile reaches out
across the expansive sea
King Edward approves

sheep dot the hillside
in the great castle’s shadow
slowly munching grass

ever fragile moss
dances on November winds
remembering once

CASTLE HARLECH

High on the battlements
of Castle Harlech
the winter wind cuts through me
like scythes slashing the grasses
in the meadows that roll out
toward the distant, mute hills.
The plaintive cry of bowmen
whose bones are dust taken
deep into the Welsh soil
are whispers lost in the wing sweep
of the circling starlings.
I turn to the moss crusted stones
and beg them to tell
of all they have seen
but they sit silent, defiant.
It is only the occasional
bleat of the sheep, grazing
in the ill sheltered keep
that sounds in answer.
Ask us, they say, we have
many tales to tell
but the screech of the lone gull
begs them be silent.
In the dining room of the Plas Café
stealing warmth from the coal fire
I am the sentinel, ever watchful
over the sleeping sea.