A Welsh Retreat


I had to reverse to find it;
The drive peaked out of the hedgerows
On a road leading nowhere
Under the gentle gaze of the hills.
I rumbled down the track to see
A theatre set, bathed in sunlight,
Waiting for the players to bring
Their story.

Then, the Overture:
A terrier yapping, cornered
Between excitement and terror,
Bouncing his call to the cheap seats.
Cue the location director –
A woman clothed in solitude,
Slight in build with a quiet smile,
Softening the confident
Moments of display on the set;
Then the stage manager – at first
The image of practicality,
At home with machines, tools and paints.

Such are the patterns that we weave
From the threads of our blinkered sight.
The true story takes place off stage,
And truth it is, it now seems to me.

Truth is found in a quietness
That sits behind his steady gaze
Conjuring up a poetry
That calls out injustice and smiles
At our human absurdities.

It is found in the lush valley,
A wild Eden, carved and nurtured
Out of sight of the casual
Visitor. A valley for fun, with a hut
For night time feasts and absorption
With the scents and sounds of the wild.

It is found in the empty room
Fashioned out of the barn’s stubble
To form a place of expression,
A cradle for health, a platform
For dreams that hide unformed ahead.


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