The old track crunches its way to Llangollen,
through fields and sheep and rain
racing with the road that Telford laid
the canal,boats,ducks and motor cars
all going west this morning.
Do you know the place its Eisteddod
choirs, and dancing in the street?
Red dragons flying high tall hats
and pretty women,Celts,Saxons,Vikings
foot steps,strange tunes from the Urals,
sopranos heavy in their blouses.
The parish church,its cassocked crow
en-caustic tiles,tunes in Welsh and English
bilingual prayers on Sundays.
Steam,stopping at the bridge
once going on to England
built over now,hotels and B and B.
coach park,pensioners,tea and cakes.
There beside the hurry of the Dee,
struggling through sleeping whales of rock
the station falling to the river
clinging to the bank,black slate tiles,
signal box,children on the foot plate
engine driver,dirty in his pride.
Clashing camera shutters,plastic wind mills
ice cream queues and candy-floss
babel voices,friends to meet again next year.
But today all quiet,March too early,cold and grey,
walk the empty streets dream July and sun
come again to join the merriment and song.
For now take coffee sit and smiling talk,
warm yourself before you lean the bridge
to watch the froth and roar
shiver,pull on the gloves and scarf
find again the railway track and gravel
now going east and home.