OWAIN GLYN DWR
("Rrann vawr a ddywaid
i varw; y brudwyr a ddywedant na bu"
"Many say that he died;
but the poets say he did not".)
Old
Chronicle.
In you the blood
converged
Of martial dragons from
the north,
Princes of sweet Powys,
lords of Deheubarth.
The genes of all the
makers of the nation
Clustered in your proud
nobility.
That flag you raised,
to which they flocked,
Was not the lions of
old Gwynedd,
Sober and stubborn,
prudently treating
For its fair share
under the feudal sun.
Instead you flaunted
the red dragon,
The fateful banner of
Emrys and Arthur,
Trumpeting once more
the old defiance
That echoed back a
thousand years.
When Henry offered you
a pardon,
Did you perhaps
remember
Llywelyn gored by a
Saxon pike,
Dafydd
dismembered,
His body parts
distributed to alien towns,
Lawgoch, that other
Owain, stabbed in the back
By the Scot in English
pay?
You must have thought
of dazzling days
When you held court in
Aberystwyth,
Signed a treaty with
the king of France,
Were hailed as Princeps
Walliae by the pope;
When Hereford and
Shropshire sued for peace
As you led your army
into England.
Better to stay on the
run in the wet hills,
Not quite giving up,
still harrying away;
Building the sustaining
legend,
Enfolding us in the
mystery of your death.
Our second Arthur, you
defied the tide,
Rebuilt the bonfire
from the glowing ashes;
And, if its searing
heat has cooled with time,
Still it gives warmth
to thaw our frozen heart.
GRAHAM
HUGHES
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