Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...
erbacce-press
Natasha Borton
Named
The drowned, the damned, the dead village.
Cwm Tryweryn
Capel Celyn
Llyn Celyn
Tryweryn Reservoir
Afon Tryweryn
The people aren’t thirsty,
dehydrated by greed
in the grey City.
clear, crystal, piped liquid.
The engines
lap at rusted lips
in search of ancestry.
drill bits tongue the ground
honey suckle
the unquenched gulp of
thick crude oil.
When men sit
with frosted mud ale
the cistern turns
emits a pale gas too
pass the time
the land is theirs.
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