The saplings of the green-tipped birch
Draw my foot from bondage:
Let no boy know your secret!
Oak saplings in the grove
Draw my foot from its chain:
Tell no secret to a maid!
The leafy saplings in the oak
Draw my foot from prison:
Tell no babbler a secret!
Briar shoots with berries on –
Neither a blackbird on her nest,
Nor a liar, are ever still.
by Anonymous
12th century
Getting up early on a Sunday morning
leaving them sleep for the sake of peace,
the lunch pungent, windows open
for a blackbird singing in Cyncoed.
Starlings glistening in the gutter come
for seed. I let the cats in from the night,
their fur already glossed and warm with March.
I bring the milk, newspaper, settle here
in the bay of the window to watch people
walking to church for Mothering Sunday.
A choirboy holds his robes over his shoulder.
The cats jump up on windowsills to wash
and tremble at the starlings. Like peaty water
sun slowly fills the long brown room.
Opening the paper I admit to this
the water-shriek and starved stare
of a warning I can't name.
By Gillian Clarke
from Letter from a Far Country (1982)
Cyncoed is a community in the north of the city of Cardiff, capital of Wales. Located to the north east of the city, Cyncoed is one of the most affluent suburbs of Cardiff. It has some of the highest property prices in Wales. Cyncoed is a short distance from the city centre and boasts beautiful views of the surrounding mountains. It is also just a short walk from the well known Roath Park.
I have banished God
further than the Antipodes
since my so-called accident.
He was the owner
of those mills of death,
his manager the old Cholera.
The preaching of Cheapjack remedies:
holding up heaven as a cure.
They took my eyes
and struck them
into cannon-balls.
My mask and its perpetual night
is known to the pit-ponies.
Crossing the Iron Bridge
I hear the river’s voice
bring tune to my ballads,
the hooves of canal-horses
count beats and pauses come
as I breathe the welcome wind
from the west and eventual sea.
Night arrives and they all
share my mask: punchy drunkards,
rousing rebels and laughing ones
who sup to conquer daytime.
My daughter is the blackbird
giving flames to the begging hearth
of our basement with her song;
and I am the owl, I turn
to face their sufferings,
call them out to chase away
the chimney’s shadows. Masters
I magic to mice
under the death’s-head moon.
by Mike Jenkins
from Invisible Times
Fun fact: Richard Williams, better known as Dic Dywyll (Blind Dick) but also sometimes as Bardd Gwagedd (The Bard of Folly) was a renowned ballader in nineteenth century Merthyr, who was blinded working at the Crawshay ironworks. His daughter, Myfanwy, was immortalised in Joseph Parry‘s song.
This link gives you a little bit more information about Dic Dywyll if you’re interested: http://yba.llgc.org.uk/en/s-WILL-RID-1790.html
Rambling At The Bridge Head 