The mark of the Dragon

Fiery dragon’s-claw
Scars the Welsh skyline.
Feels like coming home
Now we are in the
Land of my Mother’s…

Welsh dragon claw

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Welsh Dragons and Spaghetti Flings

My Mum is a gentle soul, not too quick to judge – instead stands quietly by and watches. Talented in lots of ways, her singing self has performed on stage and radio and TV and also in the kitchen on the hallway…and the bathroom (my Dad has been known to sing a duet. Not so pleasant!). Her poetry has been published in various books and greetings cards but she is not one to look for praise or glory she just gets on and does what she enjoys. Latterly she has taken to doing crosswords – you only need put the paper down for a minute and she has nabbed it for her own and it’s not long before she ropes everyone else in to provide the answers – generous to a fault she likes to make everyone share the credit for finishing it. A joint effort you see.
My Mum’s emblem is the Welsh Dragon and just occasionally you see a fiery side – this has surfaced once or twice in her poetry and most memorably of all in the spaghetti fling (a Welsh version of the Highland one I suppose). Me and my brother appreciated the artwork on the flock wallpaper but I’m not sure that my father did as it was his head it narrowly missed. It must have worked, this venting of steam, as they celebrated their Golden Wedding a couple of years ago.
Happy Birthday to my wonderful Mum – the most selfless and patient person I know.

In my veins

Lunch overlooking the River Medina; we appreciate our shared heritage while residing far away from the land of our fathers, our forefathers. My amateur delving into the past has uncovered a  plethora of  blue-blooded relatives and raised a host of questions still awaiting answers but most of all it has brought me closer to the line that links me and my countrymen making me proud to be half Welsh.

Underneath

A pang of apprehension hits my stomach as it sinks into the depths of the earth along with the rest of my body. Echoes of ancient picks seem to ring in my ears – although they haven’t touched the thinning seams of black gold for thirty four years. I turn and look back up the tunnel into the stygian darkness and it is the turn of my eyes to fool me into seeing a light deep in the distance. I know that we are the only humans in this part of the mine but maybe the spirits of the two hundred lost souls still haunt this labyrinth, not to mention those faithful ponies…who for just two weeks in every fifty-two got to run free in the fields above…

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