Nant Gwrtheyrn, and the Goldcrest

Corkscrew alpine road twists
steeply down, and round;
the village far below
hugs the sea, high hills and cliffs surround,
quarry village long ago,
abandoned,
ruined, raped by commune occupation;
then, vision, acquisition,
hard work, renovation:
conference haven,
concentrated courses, happy sweat
learning Welsh, a satisfying swot,
– come, they say, enjoy all that this place has got
– beauty, peace, remoteness,
and learn a lot,
(others courses also
choose this lovely, isolated spot).

Car parked, walking down the drive vertiginous;
‘Rivals’ tower above, – clouds lift,
looming backdrop mountainous,
dark roadside woods well-watered, where
tiny birds are flitting, slipping by, for there
little goldcrest whistle sounds are heard, repeating:
no sight, not even fleeting,
elusive, secretive.

The chapel, busy in the village life long gone,
now, filled with memories, past news
caught, recorded, written down;
and, look, a bird trapped, (plates of glass confuse),
– scared – a goldcrest rests, recovering,
a chance to see it well in flutterings’ pause
but soon it finds the open doors,
and back again to mingle in the forest out of sight;
we took advantage of its temporary plight
to view, and get our photograph:
delight!