A Violin concerto I hear
with depth of sound, and melodic,
symphonic poem “Penillion”,
“Welsh Nursery Rhymes” that frolic –
maybe Sibelius brings a hint,
touch Mendelsohn, and from Elgar,
Vaughan Williams has added a mood –
but heard uniquely from her?
Grace Williams, in Barry at home,
perfectionist but self-doubting,
in life knew not acclaim for her worth,
short-measure list of recording:
but listen, listen to her strength
in tune and harmony, travel
where surging chords can reveal
a world, and vision unravel.
The Brecon Hills together curled,
leap-frogging peaks of mountains,
Wye Valley woods of mystery,
or Pembroke rollers’ fountains?
Long swollen Severn’s white-froth rabids,
or nameless spring bright dancing,
lone buzzard hovering on the moors,
dark castles foes awaiting?
Or valleys terrace lined with homes
beneath the smoke from the chimney
of pit, of engine’s traffic shunt
past heather hills of Rhymney?
Her conjured images lay
in trumpet, strings and in voices
that resonate all of Wales
through song chords, symphony noises.
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