They stand for Wales in wind and rain,
impervious to elements that might
conspire to quell them. He, strumming his lyre,
she, sturdy, plaited, our Lady of Verse.
In a town renowned for its bridge and song,
these monuments are springtime flocked
with daffodil and druid. In black bronze,
they wait for The Prophesied Son,
on the green acre of Ynysangharad, churned now
like a battlefield, limbed with trees,
where something dear was almost drowned.
After the flood, a nation stirs in a park.
Nicholas McGaughey is a Literature Wales Mentee. He has new work with Bad Lilies, The Friday Poem, Stand, Broken Sleep Books, Poetry Wales and The Atlanta Review.
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