The fading fire of a dream

It would seem could blaze anew

In the hearts of beaten men.

Prophets again spoke words true

Of a son of the dragon

Who would gladden and inspire

And rouse the people from sleep,

No longer sheep. Filled with ire

They sharpened sword axe and spear,

For ’twas clear the hour had come

Of the once and future king.

Bards would sing and beat the drum,

Pluck the harp and trumpet sound,

Declare found the anointed,

The one who would wear the crown,

Bringing down disappointed

The servant of the false king.

They would bring the captive lord

Before his throne. ’Hail Owain!

For ’tis plain steel’s in thy sword

My warriors thou didst route:

Without doubt you are the One

Whom God has blessed. Noble heir

Of Arthur’s chair, thou hast won!’

Thus Mortimer bent the knee

That all might see foe made friend.

Bolingbroke quaked, and fear felt:

This friendship spelt his near end.

Unless…Was hope to be found

In one who clowned with Sir John?

Could Hal a soldier become

And find wisdom yet, newborn?

Mortimer, Lord Percy too,

Henry knew, could spell his doom.

If with the Welsh they joined arms,

With what charms could England bloom?

So Shrewsbury, it was to be

Where Destiny played His part.

Hal met Hotspur, won the day,

And thus the play found its heart.

Not Cymru’s bards, but Avon’s:

The ravens, alas, are black,

And bleak the outcome for Wales,

Though the tales will e’er come back

To keep the fire of a dream

Alive. A gleam of maybe

Of a once and future king

Still we sing, yearn: to be free.

Commentary:

A slice of history… In the 13th century, Welsh independence came to an end, with the conquests of Edward I of England. Over a century later, in 1399, Henry Bolingbroke became King of England, overthrowing Richard II, and reigning as Henry IV. Bolingbroke’s claim to the throne was tenuous; and many of the English and Welsh lords regarded him, with some justification, as a usurper. In 1400, Owain Glyndŵr, a Welsh lord, a descendant of several Welsh royal dynasties, and a supporter of Richard II, quarrelled with a Bolingbroke loyalist, his neighbour Baron Grey of Ruthin. Glyndŵr’s grievances were ignored by the English parliament, and led him into open revolt, declaring himself the true Prince of Wales. The revolt spread quickly, and Welsh bards viewed him as heir to the legacy of King Arthur (the Once and Future King of prophecy) and the pre-Conquest princes of Wales.

Early Welsh successes included the Battle of Pilleth in mid-Wales in 1402, at which the English lord Edward Mortimer, one of the most powerful of the English barons, was captured. Mortimer changed allegiance, and entered into an alliance with Glyndŵr, as did Lord Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, the most powerful northern English Lord. The three allies agreed to divide England and Wales between them (the so-called Tripartite Alliance): Percy would rule in the North, Mortimer in the South, and Glyndŵr in Wales and the Welsh Marches. The political situation was grim for Henry IV. However, his son Prince Hal (the future Henry V), despite having spent his younger years as an impressionable and dissolute wastrel under the influence of Sir John Falstaff, turned out to be an excellent field commander. He defeated and killed Henry Hotspur (the son of Lord Percy) at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1405, preventing the three opposing armies from joining up, and turning the tide against the rebellion.

Despite having lost his English allies, and having seen with the support he’d garnered from the French also coming to naught, Glyndŵr continued the rebellion for more than a decade, establishing a Welsh parliament, and making plans for the first Welsh university: but eventually the English crown regained control of Wales. An outlaw and a fugitive, Glyndŵr refused the offer of a royal pardon after the rebellion had finally collapsed. His date of death and exact burial place remained unknown: like Arthur before him, Owain Glyndŵr became a figure of legend. Yet the dream of Welsh independence he had rekindled never entirely died. Welsh nationhood, and the survival of Welsh culture and language to the present time, owes more to him than perhaps any other individual.

As for ‘the Bard of Avon’: William Shakespeare gives Glyndŵr a small role in his Henry IV: Part One. Together with Richard II, Henry IV: Part Two and Henry V, these history plays tell (from the English perspective, almost two centuries later) the story of the events leading up to and in consequence of Henry Bolingbrook’s usurpation of the English throne.

I breathe deep her unique scent

A fragrance sent, parts of she

Taking time to note them well

Before the knell tolls for me

Too busy to notice all

The things that fall in my way

That I step over blindly

That try so kindly to say:

"Stop, stare, breathe, hear, recognize!"

All the clued cries fast passed on

I should have savored them all

So to recall dear life through

Now I'm inert in wonders

To the thunders I heard not

Life's each microtomed moment

Each component my blind spot

My panic is desperate

I've no respite, such gems missed

Never get them back again

Forever, then, erst dismissed

Worthwhile ways to live life all

Requires stalling each time

Loving life with dissecting

For collecting the sublime

Now I'm cramming for finals

Photos equal my Bible

Can't appraise my life when done

My moments unplaceable

Whistling sounded like a wail,

down the dale, a devout hymn.

When the wind was in the trees …

but the freeze has taken them.

Can a longing be undone?

Such a one as you would know.

Unrequited love is hard.

You imparted naught but woe.

So, my Dream, shall I construe,

dare unloose my full intent?

Nay, my passion hast full flown.

Thus, I moan. My clothing, rent.

You, forever loathe to share,

you ensnare the smallest look.

Exclude me, just like the cold,

when it froze over our brook.

Mountains loom, reach tall and wide,

Doom that rides and flies above,

Clouds that blot the sun and sky,

Chariots fly, gentle dove.

It prepares and chaos waits,

Sinking weight, watch clearer skies,

Storms that brew and thunder booms,

Darkened gloom, they seek the wise.

Normal lives, some go about,

Doom they flaut, to sharpest scorn.

Evil wings, at home unfurled,

With pearls and gems, kings adorned.

Apocalypse, borders die,

Queens that cry for rulers felled.

With death and birth, time inbibed.

Unite in tribes, borders weld.

Nations rise and war again,

Until the end, faced once more.

Heights to reach, built not to last,

Time is vast, and nothing's moored.

Oscillated history,

No powers be, natural tithe.

Patterns seen emerged from yore,

Fire soars, yet no one writhes.

Lovely heather on the moors

Sight of you so dear and sweet

You beckon my heart and soul

Fill my senses when we meet.

Oh, heather divine scattered

Across the vast hillside moors

You haunt my days and long nights

With growing mist at my door.

Our hearts, they beat together

’Spite the distance betwixt us

Like a union of true love

Steadfast and true, always thus.

When my life leaves, stay with me

Take my body, heart, and soul

To your flower strewn gardens,

Keep me there and make me whole.