British nostalgia

March 8, 2007

Not an island now. Looks like it was dropped
on the sand, idly, ringed with driftwood bleached
silver, keen
as if poised by ghosts defending
the hills from Scythian cavalry.

But the druids were torn in Anglesea
by the short cruel beaks of eagles. Later
Owen did his best, was loved and hated,
but this was no island

walled by the void of distance.
To the east, the place the Welsh called
Lost Lands, where the names were all changed
by lanky Saxons with strong stomachs for ale
and no heads for Roman wine.

Do I strengthen the echoes
of sickly nationalism
when this tide tingles like song
under my skin? I never lived here
only visited to compose
this curiously British nostalgia
for a dance I will never remember.

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