Caernavon Bay is below, and to the west
the Irish Sea. The restive winds and waves
are lulled now to a breath, to a swell.
In the distance the London-Holyhead train
crosses the causeway. A multi-decked ferry
from Dublin is entering the harbour.
After the Druids hid, and the Romans left,
there came a multitude of saints, mostly
martyrs, not infrequently princesses,
renowned in death for healing the heart’s anguish.
St Gwenfaen – ‘Blessed White Rock’ – was one such.
Roscolyn’s plain parish church dominates
the high ground where her cloistered cell had been.
Someone has put a bench outside the churchyard,
perhaps for those returning from the saint’s well
on the headland, their torment gone, abated.
The dry stone walls and sheep-grazed fields stretch
in a soundless haze this kind summer evening.