The Edge

I’m back on Idris again at the edge
of Llyn Cau alone with the madness
of giants surrounded by the battle-fog
of Gwenddolau although Arfderydd
is distant, Myrddin, the gwyllon,
the seven-score men who lapsed
into wyllt-ness when battle-rage fled.

The ravens have left and I am alone
pondering the edge of a blade lost
in my brain-fog, my little Arfderydd,
the small traumas etched on my flesh.
Battle-scars, battle-madness, the battle-
field I thought I’d escaped long ago
when you appeared to Myrddin

as the brightness beyond endurance,
tore him out of himself and took him
to the forest of Celyddon to be healed.
When you walked out of the heroic age
and took me not like a maiden but like
one of your own taught me to fight
with Cyledyr, Cynedyr, Cynfelyn,

wilder than beasts of the mountains,
to howl with your hounds and exult in
the madness of giants bigger than dream.
Bull of Battle, Invincible Lord, teach me
again the art of turning pain into poetry,
to make this battle-fog my strength not
my enemy and this edge my blade.

2 thoughts on “The Edge

  1. Tiege McCian says:

    Walking hand in hand with mythology! I think your premise is clever, picturing yourself in the context of the legend, and the frenetic run-ons lend itself to the desperation of battle-madness. “the madness of giants bigger than dream” is my favorite line, the imagery looms over the hilltops of the photograph. The sword edge, lost and reclaimed, remains a haunting mystery to me.

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