Icy stream of Mynydd Du
cutting through the shaley scree,
granite rock and arid grass
of the windswept mountain pass.
Soaring buzzards, curlews cry,
skylark climbing to the sky,
bracken, heather, golden gorse
mark the sparkling waters course.
Tumbling over falls and rapids,
til, by valley walls en-trapped,
lesser gradients slow the pace,
boulders halt the frantic race.
Sheep trot down the grassy banks,
cattle cool their steaming flanks.
A road now runs beside the stream
and picnickers come on the scene.
Toddlers squeal and splash with glee,
parents drink their thermosed tea.
In one deep pool, some youngsters swim,
water refracting town-white limbs.
For peoples convenience, the council makes available
a number of those wooden picnic tables.
One has obviously been well used
but the beauty of the stream has been abused.
Cartons and bottles, containers and cans
have been dumped by some thoughtless hooligans.
A hymn line describes the odiferous pile
Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.
Icy stream of Mynydd Du
birthed in mountain purity
seeks its final destiny;
absolution in the sea.
© Michael Mortimer - March 2004
your comments
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Amanda Weeks from Pontypridd
What a great poem - really evoked the senses.
Stephanie Eadie from Abergavenny
I think this poem is really good.
C E Morgan, New Tredegar
Very good poem. I could see the stream & hear the water running over the stones. Keep up the good work. You will bring a lot of joy to people who can no longer walk to these places.
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