Thursday, 30 September 2010

The Red Rock

I suppose it was iron rich
that high red rock in Criccieth
behind Marine Terrace, above
the pitch and putt and bowls;
a place where fantasies bloomed
among the broom and gorse
and I was lost to all but myself
and, faraway and visible,
the magic mountains, winking
in sunshine, slumbering in mist.

The gulls rode the breezes
like gang boys shoulder rolling
while over the years the scrub filled
with bright new builds, like plastic
blocks on an old kilim
and facts began to pile upon my fancies
until the red rock became ferrous,
a memory, a mere poem.

Wynn Wheldon

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