When Cymri say
“Pwllheli”
I hear again
the pebbly ripple and lap
blessing the shore.
No human voice, no engine roar
only the thin cries of arctic tern
ganneting the sea.
Across Tremadoc Bay
Snowdonia’s curtain of cloud
blacked out war.
The still air
calm as the prayers
of a thousand Celtic saints
cleansed my head
of death, of furnace fires,
so many missing friends.
The world was still at war but
Pwllheli
was elsewhere.
George Wilson
