Nant-y-Ne

Nant-y-Ne

A white speck
at the far end of a long field
beneath the mountain
with, high on the skyline,
the ruined tower.
You could spot it
as we ground up the lane
in low gear,
weekends and holidays
during our childhood.

Its whitewashed face
caught the sun,
two dormer windows
eyebrowed little eyes,
a window cheek each side
of its pointed porch nose
and the quirky grin
of its door mouth.
Clothed in a garden
of gnarled plum trees.

Living a fairy tale
without benefit of electricty
or running water.
Oil lamps and iron range
aglow at night.
Water from our spring
known for its healing powers,
a place of pilgrimage
for hikers who knocked
asking to fill their flasks.

Four companionable holes
in the worm-eaten bench
of the ty bach
shared by we four brothers.
Tin bath before the fire
laboriously filled
by countless kettles
for the four of us in turn
and then Mum and Dad
after we’d gone to bed.

It was all a lifetime ago
but if I look hard enough
I can still spot that white speck
and, homing in, Mum and Dad
standing outside watching
the four small figures
scrambling up the gully
to emerge in due course
waving away triumphantly
silhouetted on top of the tower.