Whitecastle


Beyond the stile
hollyhocks bloom
amid the ruins
of stark, cold stone -
cavernous towers
that gape at the sky.

Circling ravens
cry to the vanquished
craving secrets
long since forgotten,
conqueror's spoils
long since lost.

Above the flagstones
a canopy of crags
birthing ferns whose lacy fronds
soundless, feather
the chill Welsh air.

Life renewed
in a fortress
dead.


©Leigh Hay