Saint In The Wind

Saint In The Wind

The rain-sweet cloud-drawn
Winter hills in morning eyes,
Wild horses, thundering, echoes.

The wind blows across
The cliff tops of St. David’s head
And up along the coastline,
In the later light, rode the seagulls,
Appearing out of the distance, the grated sea,
One by one they came.

Beneath the Gulls
The stilled air in the half-light,
The neat grassy spaces –
In a field strewn with tumbled walls
Where, it’s said, St. David himself was born.
The ancient walls, protected themselves now
in their old age, with more fences and cement
Ward the ways across times dark gates.
Atop a long stairway two dragons,
One red, one white
Who sleep as only dragons can.
At their feet, dragon feet –
A spring, worn steps
And a tin cup on a string.

– Abichal Watkins.

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