Drowsed in a mellow autumn's haze
That dulls the green-gold dunes,
I hear soft voices from the sedge
Beside the dimpled pool.
They murmur to my muted mood,
And in a moment's span
I see a host of long-dead shades
Come surging from the past.
Bronzed Romans swing with casques agleam,
Exulting Vikings march,
Each flushed by pillage, rape and spoil,
And flames from Kenfig town.
The phoenix rises from the dead,
Once more the town's heart beats,
Till Hamon's son with Norman hordes
Subdues its Celtic fire.
A borough blossoms in broad meads,
With strong walls girt about,
Where castle rings to men-at-arms
And portreeves proudly rule;
Soon markets, guildhall, thrive apace,
In spite of Welsh forays.
But oft there swirls a woeful wind
That shrieks with dread portent,
And ever drives its golden charge
In flurries from the shore;
Until at last with frenzied blast
The demon hour-glass breaks,
And street and moat lie choked in sand,
A broken keep remains.
There time stands still and plovers sob
A bittersweet lament.