John Dexter Jones

From Lliwedd

There is no Avalon down there in the patchwork.
The knights have gone
And their great stone strongholds are small.
This fortress could mock such vanity for a million years
But it would hardly matter.

There is struggle down there on the criss-cross lines,
Relentless in the toy towns
And plans for more.
Seen from this sky, the whole world
Would shake its head.

There is no plan up here in the slow dawn,
In the simple passing of time.
This is the truth and nothing but
A bleat across the empty air
At most.

There are no longer warriors in that shadowed smoke,
No ladies in the lakes.
Up here, the wind mourns time
Groaning through the rock
Across the grave yards of slate
And the scarred ramps of scree.