THE LLAN POEMS

Battering wind upon its knife edged fronds of
power cast an eerie blackness over the Darren.
Look up at the light fed specks in the vista of blackness
as they send a parochial warmth down to your visual perceptions;
a perception of fields and green that maintain the harvest.

Up there at its yonder point tills the farmworker and son
breaking down the barriers of a time long gone.
A toil of pastures and beyond reap the harvest that is wanted
to feed the valley mouth and beyond.

Fresh is the night air that envelopes your lungs and fragrances them
with the valley’s lifeblood; a lifeblood that has been there for centuries past.
Oh wieldy Darren bach your pulse is the growth of the ground you lie on
suspended above the bleak gelded copper town.

Up , up and further up sings the voice as Welsh as the next
exalting the praises of a home brimmed with its own hiraeth.
Stark contrasts will bleach the cloth that shrouds the mound
as if it were some great cover of sanctuary.

Deep within us we feel that alive is the beat of the Celt’s
tambour; straddled between this and that parish.
Deep within us is the soul that circles and lands on this
Brythonic mist blowing in from the channel over mound
and byre; Shackled to the darkening sky lies the Darren’s heartbeat.

2. A BLEAKNESS AND BEAUTY

Battering wind upon its knife edged fronds
powerfully cast an eerie blackness over the Darren.
Look up at the light fed specks in the vista of blackness
hosting a parochial warmth in your perceptions;
Fields and green that maintain the harvest.

Up there at its yonder point tills the farmworker and son
breaking down the barriers of a time long gone.
A toil of pastures and beyond, reap the harvest that
will feed the valley hunger and thirst many times.

Vigourous is the night air that freshens lungs and fragrances soul
for within the valley’s lifeblood lies its pulse.
Darren bach your heartbeat is the growth of the ground you lie on
suspended above the bleak gelded copper town.

The Welsh voice of this land sings ever more strongely
exalting the praises of a home brimmed with its own hiraeth.
Stark contrasts will bleach the cloth shrouding the mound
as if it were some great cover of sanctuary.

Deep within we feel that alive is the beat of the Celt’s
tambour; straddled between this and that parish.
Deep within is the soul that circles and lands on a
Brythonic mist blowing in from the channel over mound
and byre; Shackled to the darkening sky lies the Darren’s breath.

This then is my view of the nature park I inhabit,
verdant green giving way to the bracken brown
slithers around the mountainous valley.

Regular as clockwork, transport sounds
invigorate our ears with almost rhythmical lull.
Even the saplings bear witness to the rush and motioned frivolity
they make in an attempt to pierce the sound barrier.
Bridgend via Tondu, go the sighs of approval,
countless as they all board their festive carriage.

In a time further back though, Llan gives light to a yester year
ending in seventy one through a haze of steam and shunt.
Crowds on the now fractured platform that has come
of age and past its prime; hailing down their lifts.
Stand now on the platform shell and hear that ghostly
bustle that was very much its era.

Today falls the silent rush and clack of the railroad
that ushered in countless more to this valley’s haven.
Bracken browned and sun dried lie the vegetation’s
drape of the past, still there if you tune in.
Rubbished sidings sadly are now the audience who sit
and wait, wait for the through train to Maesteg’s heart.

Perched up here in the Gods of the town
I see a view unknown to the outsiders.
Vast confluence of road and playing field
Peppered with the sounds of its life,
The smell of its soul and the warmth of its people.

From my palace throne I see vast, I see clear
And movement surrounds my eyes.
Great growls of the passing through ten tonners
As they distribute their contents and pollution.
Soon gone and forgotten, the kids play on.

Twisting, the great mountain greens and
Blackened browns swathe the girthy mounds
Over and above the town.
Faint glimmer of the night lights are warm
Enough for the lungs that breathe out.

Vast twists of the soil play games with the sun’s
Dying embers as it scorches out another day.
I hear the celestial voices from up here that
Protect us now; they are one, silvery and delicate
As they weave a soul filled web on the bones of the town.

Great expanse of coloured beauties scrape against the balding
Green pines that plot against the summits as if to rebuke them.
Stitched in the floor of the valley lie tales to tell behind closed
Doors, crying children, smiling happinesses and dying hearts.
Swaddled close is the friend and the foe, thinking ahead.