Cofiwch Dryweryn

It is not just the loss of land

nor the flooding of our homes

it is the injustice of oppression

ignorance of what I am feeling.


Someone pours water down the sink

unknowingly wasting my weary woes

another flushes the flood away into 

the sewer taking our hopes too.


There are other Tryweryns where

people are treated as boxes, shifted

from where they’ve grown 



to a nowhere, shallow earth and no words for roots


Cofiwch Dryweryn and battle the bigots

against an agenda to triumph

over God’s creation and creatures craft

and leave behind the drowned.


Soon though the warming world

will dry out the green to brown

littering the landscape with bones,



will the skeleton of Tryweryn rise.

The Storm Rages On.

Water seeped into the doors

and waterways filled to

overflowing, pasting

excrement and fifth

on clean painted walls

littering a home with 

the dross of human living.


Trees toppling on tiles

and roofs of racers breaking,

using their bank balances

and singling out the shoddiness

of builders long gone.

Gardeners losing control of

blossoms, battered and bewildered.


We build our defenceless homes,

on flood planes, imagining nature

will be kind to us by listening 

to our pleas, each of

us pretending that weather

is ours to control and master,

not to befriend.


The storm rages on inside of us,

begetting hatred for the 

awesome wonders that 

surge on a seashore or

flow majestically through

our countryside, and the 

willow bowing to the wind.


We have long forgotten

that we are nature too.

Child Brides

Her sparkling shoes, 

and dress of white

a princess she felt as she walked 

to her smiling groom.

A glance to her father,

looking the other way.

A glance to her mother

whose face was masked

but her tears were not.

It is legal, they said.


He took her to their home

He took her to his bed,

He took away her girlhood,

in violence and violation,

then shaking, shivering,

torn and terrified,

she curled into a 

bloodied ball,

while he smiled.

It is legal, he said.


Her childish body swelled, 

and endless work became a trial,

cleaning and cooking,

for a monster for a man.

Whose baby battered her 

unfinished frame, and 

her face fielded bruises

because she sobbed

and screamed to say, “No!”

It is legal, he said.


Labouring through days,

her body wracked and torn,

bloody and broken, her 

child’s body birthed a boy.

And the fistula created

flooded her with faeces,

revolting him and so he

took the child to cherish

and divorced her to her home.

It is legal, he said.

Self Worth

Where is the trickle of hope

if in fear we live?

We have let the powers rope us,

tie us, knotting their twine

of undermining and upsetting

strings of self loathing.


We shake and shiver in the 

shadows, shushing the voice

that cries within us like a knife

to cut the line that entangles,

that binds until we will find 

that we’ve 


fingers strong enough to 

untie the cords of domination

and cut the lacings of control,

releasing within each of us 

the dancing light of worth

the music of intuition,

and the drums of loving,

A future and the freedom to 


grasp it hungrily.

Mother Earth

Her vital blood vessels,  congested

with synthetic carbons and an aortic

aneurism of melting ice issuing

and spilling over a splashed land.


Her joints, arthritic and stiffened

by politicians feasting on fine minerals.

Muscles, fatigued by black, oil soaked 

economies, shunning the light.


Growth glands and physiology polluted 

by toxins derived from fertilisers,

foul exhalations, exhausts and ash

from fires fanning the flames of fools.


Swollen and calcified, the heart

beats slower and irregularly, as

the plasma bloats with micro plastics, 

its chambers flooded with the blood


of bodies, distorted with self deception

and the lungs gutted by greed,

and they shrink and shrivel lost to,

pulmonary schlerosis of palm oils,


until mother earth can not sustain