Ty Mawr Wybrant (William Morgan’s Birthplace)

12 04 2015

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You carry the emptied acorn cup like an offering,
one palm steadying the other,
keeping it raised, level with your nose;
studying it with giantwide eyes
as though the vacant chrysalis still cherished life
and you might witness its spell.

Your mother convinces you
to let it snuggle up in your pocket,
so you can think tiredfeet over the doorframe
and measure your path across the flagged floor.
Drovers once gathered in this dark room,
all bullish in their noise, butting up to the hearth.

The warden strokes your head like a halo,
tells you the tinybed consumed six sitting sleepers
and shows why the windows were thinned of glass.
He coaxes your mischief, chases you around the bibles,
plays hide and seek in all of William Morgan’s tongues
and lets you slide down sheer steps as we leave.

When you roar a smiling goodbye at him,
he rewards you with a chocolate egg –
undiscovered treasure from last Sunday’s hunt –
and you cup it in your hand,
this hollowshell, as you’d done the half acorn,
when the house was still so big to you.

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