Summer came and went.


Memories of play on fields between the town and sea

Heat, hot, haze, the smell of mud on wrecks of ships that saw the world.


The curlew calls as dusk descends and steals the light away from rooftops dressed in slate.


Beach Road lights ignite floodlights for kids to play, to run, to shout, to scream and dream


and stare beyond the sea.







Shafts of light stab stubborn clouds that hang above the Glyder proud


light tip-toes on tips of slate where men once toiled in freezing rain


bitter wind bites at faces of folk folorn as the Ogwen cuts through rocks of ages past


to Penrhyn Dock, where masts once rocked on seething tides and took the stone away.




With powder black and steely rod, on Glyders dark and grey

strong men cut out the heartless rock and sent it on it's way.


From Pesda hills to Hirael Bay the cargo blue and cold

to distant shores and continents, to nations young and old.


From the Cegin to the Mersey, via islands hot and dry

tallships and people struggled to keep the lord on high.


In Penrhyn fields of green, green grass, a castle large and hollow

stands testament to shame and class, a monolith of sorrow.




Tears fall through clouds of stone to dive in depths of mountain lakes


crying through a waterfall to river bed and sombre banks


twisting through the valley floor past ancient rocks and quarry town


past castle built on brutal trade


to open sea


to drown.

Print Print | Sitemap
All images, words and music copyright Pete jones unless stated.