Scattered across abandoned cwms
they lie there, marooned and bleaching
like gutted crabshells in the sun.
On walks, I stop to ‘collect’ them,
imagine them alive again
and pulsing with the old Welsh hymns
instead of echoing
the clap of pigeon wings
that ring just like the slap
of Bibles closing.
Now, no-one reads their stone legends:
Bethel, Tabor, Tabernacl
erode into oblivion,
replaced by a new lexicon –
FOR SALE – RESTORATION – DEVELOPMENT.
Beside them, in their quiet plots
tended only by wind and rain,
the forgotten sleep on through broken dreams.
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