Listen, I know you could hear
I saw you looking
From the beyond
Memories of you are treasured
No matter the bitter end
We all make mistakes
But those wrongs pass
As did you
Farewell
Author: oyster28catcher (JRA)
2025: just a reflection
A bumper year of ups and downs. More downs than I can ever recall. A tough year. A painful one. Loss and confusion has reigned throughout. Yet as we approach the dawn of 2026, there is reason to be optimistic. Right? If 2025 knocked the wind out of you, or it made you feel heavy, or plans had to change, then at least we achieved getting through this year. Survival was our summit. Now let’s climb 2026.
Been worried about my Mam for some time now. Wish she’d quit smoking and things would improve for her. Said farewell to Paul Hux, Mam’s partner and love, which hurt far too much. The end was painful in so many ways and reminded us all of how little time we have. We have yet to scatter his ashes. We will. As per Paul’s wishes. Ideally in better mountain climbing weather and with a degree of fitness to do so. And without rush.
Our kid, Paul Jr., has been near-enough unemployed all year and I’m far from convinced he’s trying hard to find work. Not that I don’t blame him, his confidence must be blown to shit after being treated like a disposable whore in the world of retail. If he had empathy and emotions he’d easily find a more social job. I really wish Mam and Paul Jr. a better year in 2026
Soon after my Mam’s ex, and my brother’s father, also called Paul, exited life. His near-adopted daughter, Astrid (my little big sister), was devastated and in hospital for considerable time. She’s better now and living near-independently. I never got on much with Paul but I did call him and kind of apologise for my behaviour as a teenager and he laughed it off. It was weird. I also helped him get some cash and a few bits to his hostel but a week after he’d left life. Astrid needs some closure and a place say her farewell. A tree-planting idea has been mentioned.
Then Mam and Paul Hux’s bearded dragon passed away too. As did my younger brother and sister’s mam Bernie. And new and old friends at football. It really has been an odd year. Work has been tough. Bugs caught me and life seemed to grind to a halt. Limbo was broken by news of the visa in December. Good mates have been around for me, even when I push them away, or hide away from conversation or life. I am thankful for Dan, my footy friends Haguey, Alison and Chris, Brahma, Daz, and others.
Panda GunDOGan has been spoilt by my Dad and nagged to death by his kangaroo-bollocked sized buddy Blue. Panda’s twin from another mother, Sky, the cat has really got used to her black and white oversized twin. It is great to see. Especially in winter when they’re cuddled up together. Heartwarming scenes!
Family life has been divided by geography but the green-lit visa has arrived. An early Christmas present. One I needed. I have been close to giving up and legging it back to China. Optimism has returned. 2026 is make or break. 2025’s highlights involved summer in Guangxi, Chengdu, Dali, Shangrila, and Guangdong. Some miles laid down and memories boxed away.
Escape has been difficult but through a quadruple helping of Doves music gigs, the sensational Divine Comedy, the magnificent John Grant (with the incredible Lynks), and an out of this world Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds at the Coop Live! Music has been an amazing escape. Like many walks with Panda. Hull Pot and Hunt Pot by Pen y Ghent have left memorable impressions from nature. I will return! At football we all lost Shez and others. Saying goodbye is not easy. I send my love to the families and friends. City, Manchester City, carried on forever more. Not a bad year after a transitional season that saw us finish runners-up in the FA Cup and 3rd in the Premier League. We’ve ended 2025 second to a powerful Arsenal and still fighting for 3 cups. Never say never.
On reflection, 2025 has made me thankful for many things: safe food standards; NHS healthcare that is accessible and paid through National Insurance; fairness and rights that are enforced and ones we can challenge via appeal (even if the archaic processes are slow); gun control; vaccines and their effectiveness; Bee Network and soon to be nationalised railways as part of readily available public transport; and family and friends for being there.
Sending love to those who’ve been there (wherever there is), family, friends, those who feel lonely during holidays, those who struggle to afford to celebrate holiday times, those who grieve a loss, anyone spending time with someone who isn’t supportive, the caregivers, nurses, doctors, charity workers, good samaritans, those battling mental illness and depression, and you for reading. Peace and love.
The feeling.
115 charges! Cheats! Empty seats. Typed, chanted, and slung at us like shit.
Where’s your European Cup? One charge and you fucked it up. That feeling when the ball hits the net.
Is this a library? Empty seats on tour. Name your greatest hit.
It’s going to VAR. How much did you pay the referee? The head beaded in sweat.
Where were you when you were shit? Your fans are from London. Remember the first time as you emerged in the Kippax.
Who are you? Small town in Stockport. The away day journey debate.
Programmes, get your programmes. The ruined weekends piled in stacks.
That painful loss. Old Trafford rocking. Swallow me up by eight.
They let us down. Why the fuck are you still here? Football blighted.
Replays of 93:20 Magical cheats! Fresh air or an armchair.
Tension, glorious tension. Squeaky bum time. Love City, hate U****d.
Squashed in at trophy parades. Feels unfair. Just a sack of air.
The Old Black and Green, Steve Moore selling programmes, the Dias stand bouncing.
Editor’s deadline, adverts flowing, whistles blowing, and Abba playing loud.
Winter’s away days over land and sea – and Stretford or Llansantffraid for a trouncing.
The full time shriek and the roar of the faithful crowd.
The hugs with Paul Lake, the ground that did shake, the moments.
Sergio, Silva, and Kompany alongside Lee, Bell, and Summerbee.
Moments we did. Moments we didn’t. The newly built monuments.
Trautmann out-stretched, Bell on a stand, Book End it should be.
Years from now moments in the stands with mates, old and new.
Holding fanzines, that’s where we’ll be: stretching out cheering you.
Don’t go against your own. Play on. Play strong. Play in Blue and White.
But most of all, Boys In Blue Never give in: do it right.
Glyderau
Dominating presence, distant popularity;
The Everest of Gogledd Cymru.
A classic climb with countless stories;
One more will follow.
Seasoned.
Spring blossoms paint a thousand colours in vain;
Threads of emotion entwine aimlessly, reaching far and wide;
Past events bind and entangle my soul ever deeper.
Summer moon cannot soothe even a sliver of my heart;
Impartial Heaven and Earth are are not my obstacle;
To know and act in harmony is enlightenment.
Autumn waves drift across a thousand mountains of lost leaves;
Antlers lay fractured on soil ripening with fungal growth;
Colours shine yellows, reds, and browns signalling life in a new light.
Winter snow builds to gently bend a single blade of stubborn grass;
Life on hold as survival becomes a testing testimony;
Throughout this long year, I have stood strong: I go on.
1915
Onslaught
Grotesque
Long-forgotten
Excrement rotting duckboard
Lice-infested vermin blurred within our souls
Stagnant distorted mirrors fractured without reflection
Obscene suspended fates
Pointless sorties advance and retreat our limbo
Slaughtered soil shelters no seed
Incompetent with fear for the front
Incomprehensibly unable to step backwards
Confusion reigns
Glory to the flag
For King and country
A noble death awaits those called to the shallows
Amongst it all, the known and unknown shoulder to shoulder
Rhythmically pulsing
Inequality
The fine line between a tent and a council flat.
The missed payments, stacking bills, and demanding phone calls.
The desperation of a meal ticket that hangs just out of reach.
The humiliation of going to a food bank and asking for help.
The indignation of waiting in a hospital corridor.
The hope and fear of never quite reaching your goals.
Pupil enlightened
Went to a foreign land to teach a language;
Came away a pupil enlightened;
Yet deep down, insecure, lost, and frightened.
Returned once again, a teacher of sorts;
Exchanged words through gained culture;
Yet inside parts lay torn up like leftovers from a vulture.
Empty dreams, wayward walks, ambitious ideas;
No urgency to take first flight;
Stood there looking up at everything bright.
Hope came along, a bundle of delightful fears;
Taught by all, time to tackle doubt’s countless chapters;
For the next part, praying for aspirational longing raptures.
Soul
I got myself variety of problems, for my soul, and my body, and my mind can’t take it anymore.
But here I stand, future in hand, cherished memories at hand, and the future is closer than yhe door.
The winds blow long, the heart beats strong, the path I follow is one I fall for.
For all I see, taste, and feel, and all I hear, touch, and smell, is hope and hope reached for in restore.
The days of dark, are out of the park, no longer distracting me with feelings I abhor.
Simple complications.
cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
Cold moon.
Bells clank and clatter
far off on the hills up high.
Above the wild white wonder
as large as the sky.
I departed for a walk
on a winter’s day;
Scattered tufts of frozen blades
guided the way.
I tasted the excitement
on the wind’s frozen air.
No animal moved freely
under my glare.
Children slid, jumped, and threw
their newfound toy.
Ran my hands through the powder
embracing each flake of joy.
The trees groaned under
weights as heavy as a house.
Soon the sun would say goodbye
like dying flames shining on a winter’s grouse.
Their arms wrapped up
against nature’s blanket of chalky dry milk.
Glistening fields of brightness
reflecting the overwhelming beamed sun on silk.
Keeping gifts in mind beyond
the long-passed autumn nights.
The excitement of finite December
filled with hope and delights.
Fall.
The leaves fall.
They embrace the ground.
Their fall is one of love.
They nourish the soil.
The roots return.
Branches stretch out.
The sun warms.
New leaves grow.
Ready to fall again.
Pending under way.
Just a sign would be good. A little update. Yet nothing.
Eight weeks, they said. That was months ago. How can a win feel like defeat? That jubilation has long passed. Instead an ache like no other has filled the void. I feel it in my chest, my collarbone, and as firing spasms of burning paresthesia. It hurts.
I’ve never felt so insecure, so vulnerable, or so weak. It shatters me: a nerve-wracking wrecking ball of uncertainty. I feel waves of anger and catch myself ready to lash out. I picture walls with new found dents, wrecked knuckles, boot-marks in fences, and all manner of destruction.
My mind tests itself with views that I fully disagree with. I see the Union Flags and England colours draped and tatty on street lighting across Manchester and I feel that I don’t belong anymore. This isn’t the nation I grew up in. I feel ashamed to be British. I feel lost.
And that all-important growth is all because of life in limbo. I feel the self-appointed hangman’s noose tighten. I question whether I should section myself. My mind is at war. My body is giving in. It’s weighed down, as if trudging in mud, and I am sinking.
The bad news flows like a torrent over High Force waterfall. The plunge pool rises and I’m face down. The breaths of air I want to take are slipping away. “Come back” on one hand versus a suspended existence on the other. A pulse racing. Light flickering to off.
I’m a grenade. The pin is loose. It won’t take much. A lost bike light in a dark park refused to be found. I boil further. The tangled lead and the dog that refuses to follow. I pull harder. A stubbed toe. A tear that refuses to flow. I am ready to burst.
It’s the hope that kills you.
Ordinary? Decent? Criminal?
The Home MCR audience were on the edge of their seats from the outset. No curtain pulled back. A wide stage with simple metal crowd-control barriers, lighting, and a large swathe of material alongside a step was all that could be seen. Varied lighting followed throughout. However, barging onto stage with full-blown presence was political comedian, Mark Thomas. Except it wasn’t. Mark played everyone within the play, centred around Frankie.
“Full of heart and power.” – British theatre Guide
Frankie has been busted for importing narcotics. Banged up inside the character narrates a dead gripping story, through various characters and moments shadowing the 1990s. The content involves the Berlin Wall downfall, Strangeways riots, Britain under Thatcher, and the IRA. Light materials. The properly bare Mancunian Home theatre stage was filled with energy. Thomas delivers. The pace flips, sensitivity grinds, and characters fly out of the solo lead. Ex-squaddie Bron and De Niro enforce and run the wing and similarly the audience.
“A fundamental belief in the power of rebellion.”- The QR
The exploration of freedom, power, and injustice is full of wit but is heavy in its themes. The toxicity of colonialism and is effects on modern day are rife. Just like real life there’s elements of toxic masculinity and how the current prison system is a duality of both luxury and hell. Thomas does not preach. He owns it. It feels like you’re down The Railway pub on Dean Lane, supping on Crystal lager and the chat is fresh from his belly. Ed Edwards has written a mint and pacey script weaving politics with graft.
“Gripping and subtle.” – The Guardian
Wilfred’s Nature.
A company dressed head to toe in pain: fatigued by angry winds.
A far-off rumbling battle ignores the deadlier than bullets elements here.
The ferocious roaring winds build repeatedly dispatching misery, suffering, and pointlessness.
No protection: coverings withdrawn; hunted by the weather, we, the repressed, cower;
Our suppressed trenches the shape of graves.
We each imagine our death: isolated hope. Gone.
You’ve abandoned us. Betrayed us. YOU!
Our faith in You: departed.
Our soon to be omitted faces freeze. You witness us empty. Our minds swallowed.
Into the void march the many.
Faith forgotten and faded.
We the forgotten turn to soil.
Our voices scream no more. Tears boiled once dry within buried pockets.
You have cast us off. Obliterated. We the erased
Sensationalism
Phenomenally mad and angry,
they got themselves into a balmy.
The shouts and the screams,
Drowned out the dead dreams,
All because of another land’s army?
Newton Heath
This way to the motion
This way I finally go
God hand me a chance to reply
God deal me a possibility
Grab your thoughts and let’s go
Round our way
Drabness wraps silent days
Buried beneath, I could be
Time to escape this forgotten place
This way to set motions
Pioneering experiences are rife
We should seek our recompense
We should escape to seek luminescence
We slide a pathway downwards
We slip on stones downwards
The supermarket lay dormant
Even the pound shops sag lazily
This way full of emotion
This way we cannot go
God hand a hope in hell
God deal out and show
Drabness wraps silent nights
Dull broken tower blocks sagging
Buried beneath I could be
Dull broken tower blocks flagging
The market is gone
The library fades from thoughts
The canal is filled with unwanted waste
The bars have barred-up broken windows
Long left the football team
The cemetery has been buried further
The old spire stands unsighted
Its stained-glass soul shattered
The locos are rusting beyond repair
The Vale’s trees collapse in gales
Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads
This way for our motion
This way we finally go
God hand us a chance to fly
God deal us a possibility
Strength
It seems that the strongest people make a little time and much effort to help others. Even when they carry their own problems. Such as someone suffering from mental trauma, yet still running a soup kitchen for the homeless. Mentally, physically, and stamina all weaved as one. The value of community and humanity at the forefront of their intentions.
“…young pioneers, men and women of magnificent intellectual and moral calibre, breaking stones and building roads under the blazing rays of the Palestinian sun” – Albert Einstein, letters to the Manchester Guardian
There are many scenarios whereby someone wants to help, thinks about helping, but is paralysed by their own situation. That person shows courage in heart and mind but feels incapacitated to do anything. I’m sure many ex-soldiers feel that way. To go from camaraderie and belief to applying for jobs at Asda or security jobs must be eye-opening. Lest we forget the sacrifices of the dead. Yet, the living return as remains.
Clout within the context of the mind can vary from mood to mood. Feelings set by durability depend on the firmness and flow of energy. Digging deep for your own personal fortitude can be taxing, especially when tested time and time again. The power of looking after your mental and physical health sometimes demands a giant-feeling step back, even if in reality it is a tiny shuffle backwards. That autonomy and power to choose can lend itself to stability that may lead to further tenacity.
“You know I just can’t believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there’s no way back. I mean, sure, it’s dirty, it’s crowded, it’s polluted, it’s noisy and there’s people all around who’d just as soon step on your face as look at you. But come on! There’s got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out ‘burg and we just have to figure out a way to mobilize it.” – Dan Aykroyd as Ray Stantz, Ghostbusters II
Brute force and the strong arm of the law may represent toughness but that former of vigorous vitality is fit for only destructive occasions or conflicts. Matching the body, brawn, and backbone of an enemy intent on your destruction may be suitable for Israel taking on Hamas, but crossing that line to deliver hardiness, pith, and robustness on all citizens of Gaza is just pure evil. Don’t all human beings, especially children, deserve security? And, as humanity watches around the world, the lustiness of the right wing rises and erodes the stalwartness and stableness of many social systems. Substance and sturdiness crumble in the path of Russian wars on Ukraine and others. The steamroller slays steadiness.
“Brian: Look, you’ve got it all wrong! You don’t need to follow me. You don’t need to follow anybody! You’ve got to think for yourselves! You’re all individuals!
Crowd: [in unison] Yes! We’re all individuals!
Brian: You’re all different!
Crowd: [in unison] Yes, we are all different!
Man in crowd: I’m not…
Crowd: Shhhh…” – Monty Python’s The Life of Brian, script extract
Greedy rich elite carry financial stamina. See also: Amazon, Tesco, Coca Cola, and the list goes on. A force for good might be in there somewhere but can its muscle and nerve fend off the hefty demands of the profit margin? The Earth landscape of 2025 seems to be an era of A.S. (Actual Stupidity) battling Artificial Intelligence to see what physique can emerge from the ashes of stewed sinews stuffed in socks of soggy steel. Nothing says nationalism like a Union Flag on a lamppost in autumn. Or, demanding all wear a poppy for those who paid the sacrifice to fight fascism.
The potency of who shouts loudest or who shouts longest and for the greatest amount of time is silencing solid sound debate. As such the healthiness and verdure of society is suffering. When a country of people struggle and that pain is visual to a globe we all loose our vim, zip, and stoutness. Isn’t it time to resolve differences? Or, should we stand idle as grown men shout abuse outside hotels filled with asylum-seeking kids and women?
“Dear Sir, When a real and final catastrophe should befall us in Palestine the first responsible for it would be the British and the second responsible for it the Terrorist organizations build [sic] up from our own ranks. I am not willing to see anybody associated with those misled and criminal people. Sincerely yours, Albert Einstein.” – Albert Einstein, letters
Give peace a chance. Stop being knobheads. #StopBeingKnobheads
31st
A whisper from the wind; a rustling beyond the grasses; the shiver down the spine; a flutter unlike an owl.
The head switching to alert; the echo of muscles tensing; a twined strand of cool mist; all senses firing at once.
Musty tastes of autumnal rot: the creaking strained lean of trees; light depleted skies; under a clouded moon.
Gentle steps struggle to find silence; leaves, twigs, and earth cast sounds; like drumming snaps to my ears; uncovering creeping creatures.
I should have stayed in; I should have cast no shadow today; and now the evening arrived; my shadow has departed.
Notification.
When I was much younger I wore a purple shirt
With a sky blue hat which didn’t go, and didn’t suit me at all.
I spent my pennies on Aero cappuccino bars and magazines where you had to collect each issue to make a model. I never completed them.
There were times where I had no money left to buy bread, milk, or cheese.
I used to sit down for a day each month when I was tired but never rest for long each day.
I’d ring door bells and leg it, and eat Chewits until the dentist would shout at me.
And I kicked balls against walls
And drink full bottles of Tia Maria in one go
And I’d accept every dare knowing risks would follow.
I’d swim butt naked in lakes and never wear a jacket in the rain.
And always wear shorts.
I wore shoes of ill-purpose and eat without worry
And demolish cakes and chocolate bars like breathing air.
My morning would be filled with coffees and Vimto in excess
And beers, beers, ales, and beers would pass my lips daily.
I’d hoard Manchester City badges, shirts, and programmes.
And now I find myself paying rent, bills, wearing sensible clothes, not cursing, and trying to be healthy
I try to lead by example. Set a good name. Play the good game.
Less football, more rest. Less TV, more reading. Less news. Less worries.
Maybe I don’t really wanna know how the garden grows
I’ve lived and practiced and made mistakes
So now I’ll live, love, and make new mistakes
You’ll be shocked and surprised
Am I slowing down? No. Just starting.
When I carry on, until I’m old, I’ll try to wear shorts.
Inspired by my Mam’s love of the 1961 poem Warning by Jenny Joseph.
Crumpsall.
I was born here.
Today to help someone.
Yet, I feel like a product recall.
Seen some come and go.
One day, we all know.
Platform 14.
Unmoving floor, a walkway without tread.
Far away and far off. Platform 14.
Almost to the horizon, beyond a travelator.
Up stairs and along a fair way. Platform 14.
The timezones crossed often lead your way.
Rammed carriages versus spacious misplaced trains. Platform 14.
Visit the world, a gateway to Blackpool.
Delays, delays, delays… and freight passing. Platform 14.
Is the moon closer or the sun further?
Pass through the bowels of Piccadilly. Platform 14.
Exposed to the elements: a wind tunnel or a sauna.
A detached island left hanging outside. Platform 14.
“STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE!”
Platform 14: visit Manchester some time.
Directions
I’ve been stuck in standing traffic
After going twice around the roundabout
Unable to find my turn off
I turn into the wrong lane
Heading against the flow
Headlong into you
Intrusive Thoughts
Saturday was a tough day. Tough to get out of bed. Tough to put one leg in front of the other.
Heading to the ground, I suddenly felt the need to cry, and slip away somewhere alone. I’ve always found it easy to step back and find solace or pull myself up. Today felt different. It was as if some gremlin was hanging on my toes inviting me to slide under ground into a pool of blackness. I dropped my friend Nat a message and went for a refreshing wander. I thought about calling my best mate Dan and realised how much that I didn’t want to speak. I sat and stared at the bleak Ashton canal. Its uninviting tones warned away those beyond water. I peered at leaves and their array of colours. Autumn’s cooler breezes had arrived.
Motivation is limited. I feel energy levels have sapped. I don’t want to do anything. It seems like every day is a push against a wall that won’t budge. I have so much to live for. I have so much to be responsuible for. I am incredibly lucky. Yet, the coolness of autumn and the shedding leaves feel unwelcome right now. I know days and nights will improve. I believe things will get easier but today, like Saturday, it is okay not be okay. A cliche maybe. But, that is how I feel.
Negativity at football seemed magnified. Impatient fans failed to cloke their dislike for Nunes and Nico. Neither did much wrong. Both put in a shift. I felt like turning on fellow fans. Instead I applauded those players louder and more passionately. Armchair and stand managers should still back their team, no matter who wears the shirt. It didn’t improve my mood. Then I pondered calling Dan again but realised I had no desire to talk. Sorry Dan, miss you matey.
I want to thank my friends at City, the ones I bumped into and nattered to, and remained with after the game for a while. Chatting to my mates, I happened upon a chance to talk to and get a programmed signed by the modest and splendid poet and author Lemn Sissay (OBE FRSL). His book Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist has always stood out in my mind. Rain is another example that I can’t forget. And Daz, for the lift to Gateshead to see City draw with Newcastle Utd in the Subway Butty League Cup – and win a bonus point 7-6 on penalties. Daz, Haguey, Alison, Hagred and co have kept me sane for the last few years of football. A great bunch that have distracted me. I love my friends and those I encounter at work, at football, and in my life. They make me stronger and I hope they feel my heart.
And back to Saturday morning, collecting Astrid at the newly opened North View mental health hospital at Crumpsall. It was opened by Ricky Hatton. I couldn’t help think about his departure from life. I was born in Crumpsall, and I caught my vision and thoughts about my own mortality. I fear death. I have too much left to do. I also know how close the fine line between here and the next life appears. That void or whatever you believe isn’t far away. And at Crumpsall as I waited for my sister. I found my overactive mind imagining the ripple effect of my death. It hurt. It shook me. I questioned my own mind. It scared me. I’m not ready. I have much to do.
I played football again tonight. I didn’t want to play. I felt numb. I went to clear my head and pull my socks up. So, what now? Think I’ll call Dan tomorrow.
Playground Blues.
Winner stays on; bell has gone; looks like Champion is our John.
Clock is ticking; defender is nicking; choice of the picking.
Up steps Daz;
gives it to Gaz;
who crosses to Saz.
The goal is gaping; the truants vaping; all of a sudden net is shaking.
The cries are heard from afar; teacher shouts, “nul point”;
Damn – VAR.
Hunt’s Pot (by Pen-y-Ghent)
Beneath the grasses: legs held dangling,
Soft earthly ledges of rich limestone with pure airflow.
The smooth voyage by rail no trouble at all
With striding pathways of steel, through vales of appeal,
across lands cast in green carpets. Beneath cloudless skies
Which beam light into deep crags, the cracked fragmented
Grounds of eternity. Dramatic streams fade from surface
To run a course beyond that of passing eyes, under
Forgotten routes beyond roots. From within the crack
Above life embraces opportunity and greenery reaches upwards
Tumbling automatically without consideration.
Its eagerness to devour air and grow stronger.
Survival of beasts under leafy drapes and salient
Canopies of loath shade across clumsy stacks of statuary shattered stone.
This emerald-laced cauldron sways with breezes lightly.
Winds have bombarded, ice has frozen the past, and much matter
has been dispelled. But today, in the soft sun, this Hunt’s Pot
is Heaven on Earth. Savage not now.
Glydwr Fach
Suitable clothing essential; weather forecast doubtful.
Rise upward substantial; pathway gladly delightful.
Leisurely windproof defences; innocense heartfelt sails.
Purity overlooks consequences; understanding enormous fails.
Symbolic titular crests; hearing howling gales.
Passion references requests; waterproof wandering fairytales.
Glydwr Fawr
Fifth tallest heap of stones.
A rocky outcrop summit.
Scramble hard. Scramble long.
A new height:
views abound.
Drystone walls and paths of gold.
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