Welsh Odyssey #4

Mwnt
(Rough Draft)
Sandmartins burrow through shifting towers.
Pilgrim paths, still visible and walked, 
wind around and around the conical mount.

One day, the acoustics of
a battle-scream reverberated
around this three-sided bay,

the Irish Sea rolling red 
the virgin sand,
- a new DNA to mix with the old.

The screams now belong to children,
cast away from appropriating hands.
Some, in a feat of engineering,
have dug culverts and dams to divert
the course of a stream,
flowing over granite onto 
the expansive beach.

Who can count the grains of sand? 
Or the dreams and neuroses of children?


©Andrew James Murray
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