Category Archives: writing

Nabod y Cartref

Who made me?
– well you should ask.
It’s now you’re asking, years later
after the rain and the wind.
Not them – they’ve been going round,
talked about wholesale replacement,
gone back inside.
Wasn’t him – he came to write,
never touched a mallet or the fencing pliers,
left in the winter.
Who remembers before then?
The sheep are gone.
So’s the butcher, and so are the women
who cooked lamb on Sundays.
Say it was the family – might as well be, now.
Say it was the ninth generation
in that old stone house there,
fed up with hauling stone and lopping thorn.
Might be the forestry down the road
gave up the stakes, might not.
Could be Taid whacked them in,
could be Huw from the village,
with his shirt off for Fflur to watch.
Could be they married, later,
moved out to Liverpool.
Doesn’t make a difference, now.
The sun’s still shining.