simonhlilly

ABERYSTWYTH RAIN

A long sweep of grey bay.

Above the town, an angel,

come for the living

or come for the dead.

It hovers matter of fact

above the dusty warehouses.

The castle keep grins

all broken teeth,

a bleak oppression,

our proud scars displayed.

Placid the waters today

and the tides all low.

The edge of one world,

the edge of another.

Hesitant, the angel hangs,

awaiting signs on the horizon

that something is worth moving for,

that something has not been abandoned,

something vital not forgotten.

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