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