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
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’.
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
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