POSTCARD FROM CAERNAVON

KIDWELLY CASTLE

By the wan light of winter sun

these grassy, shells of rooms.

are draped with brooding shadows.

Inside these ancient castle walls,

hovering spirits whisper sibilant

songs through crumbling stones.

From the chapel anguished voices

chant requiems in eerie tones

for victims of the dread Black Death.

In the great hall, dancing ghosts,

like slowly swirling smoke,

sway trancelike to the music

of harp and lute,: the scene

illumined by the flickering flames

of tar-tipped torches.

Incorporeal sounds press

loud upon my ear; disjointed

fragments of mediaeval airs.

Long dead knights and ladies

converse in hushed whispers

of murder and conspiracy.

A confluence of gathering

souls proclaim aloud, dark deeds

of treachery and villainy.

Beyond the moat,

thundering hooves

of wild-eyed horses

conjure up scenes

of bloody, mortal combat.

High on these ramparts

where banners once

proudly waved,

the castle unfolds

its chequered history for me.