See the archaic sites long buried,

their geo-vortices quelled, dishonoured, shattered or

forgotten, grown over

 only remembered, mayhap

 as myth, folklore

or by the names of places.

 

I am reflecting on

The Glen of St Afan -

where this medieval holy man

was murdered

reputedly, by Viking pirates;

 

Half a mile downstream:

there’s a little brook

and a huge oak bole in someone’s veggie patch

both, inmemorially bearing his name.

His fine Lombardic, scripted tomb

by Llanafan’s Church Porch - in this small upland parish,

opposite the oldest cited pub in Powys, circa 1472.

 

The locals still refer to

 The Old Vicarage,

with it’s white gates;

its slates and fallen masonry

being immersed in bracken and sheep bones;

lintels and doorstep retrieved

for other purposes,

along with farming harrows,

and gate posts with rusting hinges;

remnant drainage ditches - plantings of damson and hazel hedges

as well as river-smoothed stone,

poorly held-together by lime

in crumbling walls and vestige cobbled paths:

an ancient place grooved into

the land,

where Druid stones once stood -

even one unearthed and recently reinstated:

 

 

For sure, a place for pilgrimage and to re-create -

find solace, peace and inspiration,

to refresh and cherish each other;

and all who ever walked there and now do.