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Brenin yr Awyr |
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I wrote this poem whilst fascinated by the idea of the Dragons of Wales. I am particularly indebted to Suki, my critic and advisor on Welsh language and names - her input has added a real sense of authenticity to this piece. Thanks Suki Hon !!
Within the wrangled, wooded walks, On
the slopes of Morfan Clêr, Hides
the entrance, cleverly concealed, To
mighty Rhyfeddod's lair. As
daylight darkens, distant trails Diminish
from your view, And
this is when the Dragon King Takes
flight, to search anew. From
deep inside the mountain's heart, The
beneficent creature roars, Apocalyptic
wings stretch forth, And
in a trice - across the moors The
sovereign beast begins his hunt, His
nightly vigil started, For
Chalydd; missed for centuries now, Since
the day that they were parted. In
times long passed, upon these moors Where
gorse and bracken flourish, The
King, and by his side, his love, Would
hunt, 'til they were nourished. In
awe-inspiring loops and arcs With
terrifying skill, The
couple then would land as one, And
devour their bloodied kill. Then
to the cave within the womb Of
ancient Morfan Clêr, The
lovers would return at morn To
feed the young one there. And
at the waterfall below, Would
they stand side by side, To
drink the source of life itself, And
clean their noble hides. 'Twas
in this place where life was new, And
reptilian Gods stood guard, That
one day came a travelling knight, The
Prince of Gadynbard. Into
the lair he came at night, With
motives base and vile, His
sword drawn high, with panicked fear, He
killed the Dragon Child. The
infant's head he took away, Telling
of a frenzied battle, So
villagers could despise the face, Of
the one that stole their cattle. Rhyfeddod
and his mate returned That
morning from their feeding, To
find their son Felandd, was dead, His
headless torso bleeding. With
deep despair and anguished heart, Her
immortal soul dejected, Chalydd
swore to wreak revenge On
those she once protected. The
townsfolk slain, reprisal done, The
mother flew away, And
to this time Rhyfeddod waits Near
the moors, where once they played. And
so behind those tumbling falls Where
waters foam and spew, Lies
a Dragon, pining to himself, For
a love that once he knew. So,
if within those woods you stand, With
thoughts of myths belying, And
keep as quiet as death itself, You
may hear a Dragon crying. -oOo- |
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