At the bottom of the valley – here briefly
more gorge than valley – the ice age river
runs white and rapid. Deep in its narrow banks
rest the vast brick columns of the aqueduct
that carries, in a narrow cast iron canal,
one hundred and twenty seven feet above,
water from the river tapped upstream –
Thomas Telford’s genius, recognised
as one with the Statue of Liberty,
the Taj Mahal and the Acropolis
and become a stop for Japanese tourists.
Above the valley along the toll road
Telford built from Holyhead to London
is the scattered village developed and named
for the aqueduct – Froncysyllte* –
of a thousand souls at its zenith.
On the war memorial by the roadside
there are thirty six names – the first two
from the Boer War. Two small plaques list
the World War dead – and, between them, an ornate,
tiled drinking fountain (now dry) for the lads
lost on the high veld, one in battle,
the other from typhoid. The legend is
Parcher Y Dewr – ‘respect the brave’.
By chance or design, you would have had to
bow your head, when, at the turn of a tap,
the waters from ancient volcanoes
would spring into your mouth.
*Pronounced: Vron-cuss-ulth-teh.
A5AcropolisBoer WarFroncysylltehigh veldHolyheadLondonParcher Y DewrStatue of LibertyTaj MahalThomas Telfordtyphoid
John Huddart
November 6, 2015A water poem! The many incarnations of it spring through the poem, like the stuff itself. Like many of your poems, the journey starts with a traveller’s discourse, part Beidekker, part personal response, before leading us to a central reflection which focuses on the organising theme. Here the tragic ironies cascade, and conclude with a brilliant image that links ancient waters, volcanoes and refreshment. Perfect.
Clive Watkins
November 19, 2015I know this place a little, David. Your poem brings back a particular memory. Strong and evocative conjunction…