At Brecon Poem by Barry Van Asten

In the old ways and the names, have I
Steadfastly learnt to grasp a stone,
Crush it in my palm, and look away;
Away into a past...away into a sky...

But haunted was I by the ghost of a hornet;
The countryside darkness crawled over the deck;
Hidden by trees: the hoot of an owl
Softened our sleep and our dreams were set.

And beside the crushing Usk's mighty flow,
We slept, to rural music and witchcraft's call;
A ritual on the water as the boat gently swayed
To a landscape known by the Roman, long ago!

The stars told their own story, by darkened bowers;
A mythical grandeur struck retina and nerve;
Blood swelled to the time-aged rhythms, we knew,
And a Carpathia of longing for that time was ours.

And I shall return, to the place, one day,
And look upon each stone and lament;
Lament for the passing of all sacred things,
And the dear ones we love, that pass away.