The Lunt Roman fort at Bagington.
Translating Culhwch and Olwen.
First time
There’s a first time for everything.
But I don’t know
when I first read
or heard this story. Or why,
of all the things that it contains
the porter and his words
were what remained.
I read the Jones and Jones translation.
My yellowed copy still provides
the necessary gloss when
ny bo namyn iawn iawn
turns to alphabet spaghetti in my head.
Perhaps, the creaking wooden gatehouse
of the reconstructed Lunt at Bagington.
Imperial Rome’s repressive architecture
to keep the beaten Britkins in their place.
The structure shaking in the wind,
I stood upon the shifting platform,
and could imagine Great Grey Mighty Grasp
looking down on stroppy Culhwch
with his horse and dogs.
And the sound of Stival’s harp,
borrowed from the record library,
(I liked the cover)
weather and wild landscape.
blowing through the speakers.
In a storm of cliches.
I heard grey tide on the gravel beach
saw sunshine off the cliffs, heard wind and rain
smacking the slate in the green hills
and watched the grey rock changing colour as it dried.
I saw men in cloaks, with swords,
standing on a cliff edge
looking at a longship rocking out beyond the surf.
Renassiance De La Harp Celtique.
But as I read, the cliches were replaced.
Now the porter’s scene’s in shadow,
it’s raining, and the sound of harp and drum
comes softly from the distant, well-lit hall.
