Harlech Castle

In Wales two weekends ago, the misty days broken with sun and the streaming river currents were almost exactly what I had expected, but better. There were fewer sheep droppings, more mountains, and an air inspired by something I couldn't put my finger on - something between recklessness and freedom.

We visited the ancient fortification of Harlech Castle, on the west coast, and it made me write this.

Harlech Castle

On the high wall
Salt wind pulls hair across my face
And jumps down my throat,
Forcing the taste of the sea past my tongue -
I open wide to let it in.

Snowdon tugs at the blanket cloud,
Pushing a hole which tears slowly
Revealing the distant peak, proud, and dark,
A lord standing over the valley he owns.

Gulls are rising from the ramparts,
Cries lost over the winding town
Drowned in the rush of waves on the sand beneath

And I am a speck -
A tiny thing, with arms, a heartbeat,
And muddy shoes, balanced on a rock.