Grey stones that once were castle walls,
Green lawns that once were castle halls,
Become a mystic place for me,
Though standing there for all to see.
I stand midst heather and bog myrtle,
My tee-shirt turning into kirtle,
A magic mist comes floating past
To open up a memory vast.
There was a time – when? Who can tell?
I once drew water form castle well,
And watched the sights which always please,
My children herding duck and geese.
The sound of crackling logs on hearth,
And horses’ hooves upon the path.
The lazy hum of wasp and drone,
Thanksgivings sung for harvest home.
I stand on stones that once were tower,
Remembering my finest hour
Watch sunset moving down the vales
In land that was and still is Wales.
Beyond the walls, beneath west tower
Are groves of trees – a Druids’ bower.
The magic there is stirring still,
Created once by human will.
There is a sigh which none may hear,
But can be captured by a seer.
Oh how I long to hear the sound
Of those long buried underground.
I seem to feel when there I stray,
The ghosts of friends I know today.
Please give me eyes that I may see
And bring the living past to me.