Be my
strong door,
mighty-girthed oak,
stout defence of
this island.
Be my
strong door,
dair, derwen, Daronwy,
Oak of Goronwy,
rooted firmly
where
yellow daffodils grow
be the defence of
my people.
Against
disease panic
the viral hordes
of Annwn
help us
hold firm.
Be my strong door.
The imagery of this reminds me of the 13th century ‘Elegy for Llywelyn ap Gruffudd’ :
Oer gallon dan vron o vraw allwynin
(Cold heart under breast of fear grief)
am vrenin, derwin ddôr, Aberffraw
(For a king, oak door [of] Aberffraw)
They had the Plague then, of course, but this elegy laments the death of of the last of the line of Cunedda. What we learn to live with, and what contitutes a disaster (such as the one the rest of this poem outines) seems to vary depending on what we accept as inevitable. Plague was a fact of life and evoked no poetry as heartfelt as the loss of continuity that was envisaged as a consequence of Llywelyn’s death. Different ages; different priorities?
Interesting to see Llywelyn referred to as an oak door. I’m not sure which tree Boris would be… as you say different ages, different priorities, different worldview too. We lack that mythic consciousness.