We had not visited Beddgelert for years.
We remembered the winding, bosky drive
following the Glaslyn from Porthmadog,
slowly climbing as the swift river narrows;
the walk across the field to Gelert’s grave
with its slate marker his remorseful owner,
Prince Llywelyn the Great, erected
for the faithful hound he had killed in
frantic error, finding too late the dead wolf
and the saved baby. Who would not be moved
by such an irredeemable act!
The sounds of endless waters rush nearby.