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.