The Last Tide
Breaking lines of white foam rushing shorewards in frenzied haste
Flowing fiercely forwards across the sand–covered waste
Beneath the cliffs the poet traced
The path over shores where once the bards had paced
Standing to face the legions from abroad
Fearing not the glint of Roman sword
Where furies stood by their side
Cursing the hordes; to their gods they cried
The poet stops, for a moment, forming the vision that they faced
Then sees it fade like dreams that left a souring taste
He turns and slowly makes his way across the rocks
Past marram-covered dunes and peaceful grazing flocks
Looking up the strait towards the treacherous sand
Where warriors who sacrificed lives to save a land
Lie buried deep beneath the dragon’s earth
Wondering can his nation now have rebirth
Breaking free from the curse of the English heel
Where are the men with Glyndwr’s steel
Copyright: David Hopcroft August 2023
Park Bench Tales and other writings 