Upper Gronant Near Where They Came From

When we went up the hill I imagined Taed
riding his three-speed along the coast. I saw mother
as a child, working her way up into the world.
I heard gran in the kitchen, her voice
an indicator of past time. I never saw her eyes
but still smelt the cigarette smoke from the front room.

Our job up here was to strip away the growth of bramble,
nettle, cleavers, dock leaves, cow parsley, hogweed.
The hill was crawling to the ground below and we aimed
to stop it. With every scythe swipe, lopper snap, scissor kiss
with hedge trimmers, the sky grew above, and the sea,
the sea, the sea. I wanted to fall back into their beginnings.

See how they came to giving me life. What had triggered them
to leave the waves and find brick stillness. The stories
I grew up with settled like rhizomes in the land I walked.
Popping up memories as I moved further away.


Gareth lives in Wales. He has his first collection by FutureCycle Press, called The Miner. He hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen. 

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