ON A bitter, blustery winter’s morn
I strolled over the boardwalks of Cosmeston Lakes
With golden leaves swaying under a troubled sky
To the sumptuous sounds of birds and swans.
Then I entered the medieval village,
Ducked my head as I stepped into Reeve’s Barn
Haystacks, plough and yoke plus other tools on view,
The people then always had tasks to do
With no time for depression or contemplation.
I was alone in the village now
Re-built on the original site
And seemed to sense the ghosts from long ago
As I wandered into Swineherd Cottage,
Also the Baker’s, and as the hail raced down
I stood outside and just admired the scene
Feeling like I’d come from a time machine
With the thatched roofs and limestone dwellings.
I ventured into the Tithe Barn
With its crosses and tiny rainbow mural window.
For a moment I thought the figure in black
Was a ghost sitting silently with pen in hand.
The model priest was counting taxes from the villagers,
I reflected on how nothing can last
Back on the boardwalks and leaving the past.
Guy Fletcher
Pantmawr
Cardiff
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