(For Owain Ddantgwyn

our Owen of the white tooth

in battle a bear 

Arth/Ursus/Arthursus/Arthur

to his family a comfort

to his kingdom

a worthy leader

warlike as the age demands) 

so meet me at the forum

in old Viroconium city 

that vacated shell we fitted 

like a glove of mail 

of might 

of shade of light

those men of Rome left in a hurry

and tonight we can have our fill

from their amphora

so have a glass with me

a toast for declining empires

in the morning we will sharpen 

our minds and our blade edges

ready for the latest wave of pagan invaders 

to imprint the sand of our beaches

with such heavy footfall 

and cruel design

we will meet them at the heights of Badon

and claim a hopeful victory

split wrong heads asunder 

in a war that we will ultimately lose

and which will be forgotten 

as those who will subjugate us

in turn will kneel in obedience 

and kiss the ring of their oppressor

leaving us to be onlookers

in our own isle

sulky in our ale

liminal 

in the far margins

the unforgiving terrain 

where seed fails to shine

in the harshness of our tears’ rain

not knowing that scant numbers

of dreamers and word launchers 

will meditate on our time

in their leaderless day

believing as we did 

that they are near to the end of all time