Through lacquer sun and tree shade dusk,
there wound the seaward flowing Usk,
with bridges which its waters cross
on stone rock piles where currents toss
their glinting heads out wavelet roll
as river seeks its Newport goal.
How shall I cross?
By ancient bridge, four fifty years
as Brecon’s span where road careers
across each arch, now widened much
to cope with crawling traffic touch?
Or shall I cross?
The bridge with tower standing stark,
marks entrance into Glanusk Park,
a guard that might a stranger seize
who seeks to roam its slopes and trees?
Or dare I cross?
Another bridge my eyes have found,
a crossing that is water bound,
an aqueduct for barge and boat
that on canal to Monmouth float?
Here won’t I cross?
By Abercynrig’s minor stream,
to reach the river Usk its dream,
a road bridge stalled on bank, then lost,
meant here the brook would not be crossed!
Refuse to cross?
Like tree, be still from dawn to dusk,
to watch the silent, flowing Usk?
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