When the Welsh of Wales Go Home

There’s a distant drift of tides

That pitch at your troubled stare

And songs of a deep Welsh valley

Howl out from your wild, grey hair;

Then you sit, bright-eyed at the moonlight,

And you cry, bright-eyed at dawn,

There is no rest for the weary

When the Welsh of Wales go home.

 

You ride that distant country

While your eyes are mad with grief,

And you search for the things you lost there

Like trust, like hope - Belief;

I speak, but get no answer

I question, cajole, implore,

You nod with an ancient wisdom,

And wake at a cottage door.

 

You knock, but find it empty

The thatch lies thick on the floor,

The shutters are hanging open

The latch, long torn from the door,

The sounds of distant children

You sense in the wind and weeds;

All gone, as if in an instant,

All scattered, like burdock seeds.

 

All gone, the lives you left there

Were storms that passed in the trees,

A light on the far horizon

Is all you have left of these,

For soon, you’ll go to my father,

Where he went, so bitter, so far,

And the Wales of the Welsh will claim you

At the last ‘Nos da.’

 

David Lewis Paget

Author's Note

We become so much more sensitive in our old age. My mother used to cry every time she heard the male choirs of Wales sing 'Men of Harlech'. It's then that we re-visit our youth. (Nos da - Goodnight).