For Rob: Requiescat in pace

Wonder starts invisibly in small things.

Like gentle rain and sunshine,

Or more likely in this case, 

In wind and deluges

On the black cliffs of Dduallt

And the dismal peat moor where you begin.

Here, even the sheep seem desolate.

A trickle first, and then this toddler river runs fast

Down valleys, past Rhobell’s feet, mooches in dark tree forests,

Tiptoes across waterfalls of light,

Beside ancient stones.

Soon you make alliances with others,

Showing them good direction and how to thrive.

Coming to maturity where monks walked sheep to pasture,

You glide under bridges and flow gently

Under Pen y Cader’s watchful eye,

Until just below Penmaen, you reach your prime

And as the chrome yellow, scarlet lake and rose madder paint the precipice,

You are magnificent as you greet the sea,

And begin your constant golden dance of ebb and flow

Leaving silver shards and art in sand for us to marvel at.

Then past Rhuddalt, Lletywyn and Farchynys you grow in stature,

Inspiring all who come to meet you and who feel your all-seasoned charm.

At last, at Aberamffra where oyster catching squadrons and the Clock House

Mark the hour and your translation to the open sea,

We look towards your mountain,

And reflect upon your story,

And all the joy you store inside our hearts.

Paul Christopher Walton