Poems 28


 A snack bar in Glynceiriog

          And tar o’er Wrynose Pass

A five bob thrill down Gaping Ghyll

          What have we next, alas!


I saw a car on Hard Kott

          Heard radio in Cwm Glas

The army drills on the Cheviot Hills

          What follows next, alas!


A lime-works spreads in Edale

          And powders white the grass

There’s an oily reach all round our beach

Where creeps it next, alas!


They’re damming up Glen Affric

          Glen Ericht and Strath Glass

Festoons of wire to rouse our ire

          Where goes it next, alas!


They’ll pollute all our rivers

          They’ll tarmac every Pass

They’ll put hotels on all our fells

          And all we say’s, alas!


With new lakes all around Snowden

          And chara-bancs en masse

Our rights to prove, we’ve just one more –

          To emigrate – alas!

During a weekend in the Berwyns  Oct 1952


                     The End

 There isn’t a possible doubt

          A fact I needn’t commend

A truth nobody can flout –

          A beginning must have an end.


No matter the name of a thing

          No matter the form, my friend

What pleasure our efforts may bring

Is what we must judge in the end.


It began, this work of a few

          All points of view to blend

But lack of assistance from You

          Has precipitated The End.         Jan.1953 – for the final issue

of the Chester D.A. Magazine ‘Awheel’.


Poems 27

Re – Union


Now “We.R,7”, once again

I claim your kind attention,

And suit your mood unto my strain

Another meet I’ll mention.


Another day to set apart,

          Another time of meeting

Another rendezvous to start

          Another annual greeting.


Another afternoon of talk

          Another tale unravel

Of how we ride, or how we walk

          Another year of travel.


We know not if we’ll meet again

          Or if we’ll all be present;

So let’s each other greet again

          An make that greeting pleasant!


Another more, another less,

          Another, yet another

And none of us next year can guess

          If there will be no other!                       Autumn 1950


The  Gossip


And now this winter’s eve we sit

  • And shiver by the embers low

And wonder why I do not quit

          Except, except I’ve nowhere else to go.


While e’en next door an elder lady sits

          Guarding the stairs, the stairs that lead to bed

While we, to pass, puzzle our poor wits

For fear of all, of all she’s not yet said.


Friday’s rain in rapid torrents poured

          Yet not, yet not so rapid as the lady’s tale

Released as from some miser’s ample hoard

          Descending on our shoulders, on our shoulders frail.


Tomorrow well may weather fiends conspire

          To bar the path, the path that leads away

Yet with what joy we’ll face what will transpire

          To where there’s nothing more to say!          Much Wenlock Easter 1951