With The Bending Of The Light

My Grannies house,

Number forty six in the highest row,

Hung desperate to the mountain side.

A war time evacuee from London

I imagined a bomb might shake it loose

Starting a domino rush into the houses below. 

On each return I answered

The lure, strong as a sirens call,

For me it was always, first stop the mountain.

It had a fascination.

A witches engaging song sung come

There is excitement on the Welsh mountain. 

History lives proud here

My Celtic ancestors resisted the Romans,

And the English crown.

On this mountain

Coal miners defended ancient rights

With dignity their right arm.

Fought off the English army,

And withstood London’s brutal police.

On these hills I listened, learned,

Heard the rumbling rattling stony coughs

Committed to memory,

The old miners’ tales, their stories

Filled my eager ears.   

And I would rush enraptured

On the lush green slopes,

With its coarse tough grass

That would graze the knees

Of the uninitiated.

Yet there was a delicious beauty

In the mountains scent,

A freshness of washed coal, 

It kept to itself as a child hoards marbles.

Cool sweet bubbling streams

Flowed from primeval wounds.

It has been many years

Since this small boy luxuriated

On the mountain.

Time has dimmed so much

Voracious the maggots’ appetite.

Too any things forgotten.

Enlightenment brings light and shade

As the mountain shadows shift 

Each contour reveals new meaning

Evolving with the bending of the light.

They change, but do not dwindle.

If I close my eyes in concentration

I can almost conjure up its magic fragrance

Far from the mountains shadow

In my mind’s eye I can see it still,

Breathe scents of yesterday

As clear as if I were there

A small boy, a trifle bruised.

Experiencing, sharing, the mountains pain

Reading its scars,

Empathising with each contusion.

Yet wild with joy and full

Of childhood freedoms.