Half a mile north of Walter de Wale’s town,
In the country that Rhys ap Tewdwr kept;
Where Cartlett Brook still cuts the fields shallow,
Where Scollock Rath resides – a buried crown,
Whose secrets there for centuries have slept –
A new law dawns, this land for to hallow.

In this parcel, three quarter-acres long;
Upon this clay, where this farmstead was found;
On this corner of this nowhere-bound road,
We will stake a claim, straight and true and strong:
That feudal days are dead as kittens drowned,
And no king or queen a-living is owed.

Drink your fill, your enemy’s not fasting;
Doubt it all, for nothing’s everlasting.


Appears in:
Rhymes for all times [2015]

A background to this poem can be read here.


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