Afon Rhondda
In the Cymer*, a gold eyed, grey white heron,
stilted stands, where two rivers collide,
commands the stream in its stiff eyed gleam,
one peat whiskey brown, the other bottle green.
In the break and rush of an old fords remains,
in its broken, rapid cold crackling ice water,
among worn rounded scoured stones,
Graylings, Queens of the Stream,
gleam and glide, ride the current,
sails aloft, hunting nymphs unseen.
In the slow wash of the silt drop zone,
Goosanders dive through darkened swirls,
hunting with sharpened eyes and beaks,
while green necked mallards cruise serene,
and gold skinned eels burrow roots of trees,
and lie glass-eyed grey through winters dream,
and the Cymer’s deep dark pool, waits the run,
of spawning silver spring Atlantic salmon.
Meanwhile horse eyed on the rivers path,
blinkered people thumbing dull blue screens,
walk their way, virtually oblivious to the snare.
*Afon — Welsh for river.
*Cymer — Welsh for the meeting of two rivers.
Afon Rhondda will be published in The Atlanta Poetry Review Spring 2020 Edition.
©robcullen2019
