Gelert Poem by Martin Ward

Gelert

Gentle greyhound; fearless hunter; faithful friend:
Why did Prince Llewellyn's dog
not attend the hunt?

‘Gelert, Gelert' Llewellyn cried.
The hunt had not supplied him
with his customary pleasure.

Cowering at his master's side,
the fearful dog licked his master's glove
with blood. ‘What blood is this? '

Racing up the castle stairs
to where his son and heir…..
but there is blood everywhere.
‘Damned cur' he screamed.
The cradle overturned,
amidst the blood splattered there.

No sight of the child: No doubt devoured.

The dog, still at his master's side,
Llewellyn drew his sword
and plunged it into Gelert's hide.
He screamed and cried as steel
sliced canine-flesh up to the hilt.
But then another cry:
Llewellyn turned to see his son,
safe. Alive.

Amidst the carnage, unnoticed
in the Prince's blinding rage:
a wolf. Dead. Killed by Gelert.

No-one could console Llewellyn.
Haunted by the dog's death throws,
he buried Gelert at the foot plain
of Snowdon, where passers-by may
pay their homage to faithfulness slain.