Cadwallon

You are a thorn in my ear from the wind,

Cadwallon king.

Tonight this corner in a city 

knows other business;

young bloods steel for trouble

from no certain curse.

Your kingdom, Gwynedd, looked north

by troubled seas,

the broke backed Pennines

crossed by warbands and

double-crossed by enemies

of all degrees.

To remember is not to dread,

the bards urge on,

dreadful engine of destiny,

mouths to feed (and still)

and raids for glory.

But there was something more.

The gloaming of Britain

when the English rose;

those in the mountains with your tongue

cried out and you answered dreadfully.

Borderland brave,

no pity in graves for those

who stand sentinel.

(Mercia was a wolf who would

have devoured you without mercy.)

Your ancestral land was beyond

both Roman walls,

but when you returned in ruin,

there was no one there

to share your glory.